


Love Thy Neighbor

by snae_b



Series: Love Thy Neighbor [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Aziraphale/Crowley First Kiss (Good Omens), Blow Jobs, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), But not explicit, Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Crowley Takes Care of Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Past Drug Use, Past Rape/Non-con, Rimming, Sex Work, Spanking, Tired forest metaphors, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Twerking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:27:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 33,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28131651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snae_b/pseuds/snae_b
Summary: Aziraphale Fell lives a quiet life writing a successful baking blog. At least until an irritating new neighbor moves in downstairs and throws his life into chaos. Oh no, where could this possibly be going?Aziraphale was staring. No, not staring. He was beyond staring. He was ogling. Gawking. Gaping. Leering. His jaw had quite literally dropped. This was not what he pictured when he imagined what was obviously a sloppy noise demon living downstairs.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Love Thy Neighbor [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2116191
Comments: 196
Kudos: 415





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Indulgent little AU written mostly as an excuse for porn. All of those fandom hallmarks we know and love (praise kink, anybody?). First time, be gentle. 
> 
> Will release one or two chapters each week. Fully written and ready to go! Will update tags weekly, but as a heads up there will be mention of past rape (non-explicit) in later chapters.

Aziraphale kneels on the ground and gently slides the tray into the oven, careful not to jostle the four petite ramekins nestled inside. The warmth of the oven carries the delicate aroma of raspberry and rose into the tidy sunlit kitchen. He admires the deep pink batter for a moment. He is particularly proud of this little soufflé. It is going to photograph spectacularly for his blog and he desperately needs some content that screams summer. Raspberries were just the ticket. Sure it was only spring now, and the raspberries weren’t quite in season, but this post wasn’t going up for another month. He snaps a couple of photos, moving quickly so as not to lose all the heat from the oven. No sense in risking a sagging soufflé. People only cared about the final product anyway, really. These progress photos were only meant to fill space and spread out the ads he reluctantly ran. He needed to pay the bills somehow. ( _He couldn’t just miracle up money, after all_ ).

Aziraphale reaches quickly for the kettle, steam pouring proudly from its stout little spout. It wasn’t the most practical, but the happy yellow color and aesthetically pleasing squat shape made for a good photo and it featured prominently in the background of many posts: Filling a similarly quaint artisanal mug behind a tray of biscuits in the foreground. Resting on a perfectly curated antique tea tray under a late afternoon sunbeam, the pop of color playing off a gooey dark chocolate tart. Never mind that the tart had sat out all day going dry and stodgy until the sun was just right and the kettle had been empty, steam cleverly Photoshopped in later. People didn’t want real. They wanted fantasy. And Aziraphale delivered. Six days a week, like clockwork. He’d started the blog almost 5 years ago now as a way to document his favorite bakes. A couple of miraculous re-blogs by some particularly well-known food influencers and his little blog had taken off. _A Taste of Heaven_ now had over 100,000 subscribers and was generating enough income to keep the lights on. Two years ago he quit his job at the local library and transitioned to blogging full time. It was fulfilling work most of the time, but he’d certainly become a bit jaded with keeping up the perfect online persona. 

It was awkward to pour the water bath and snap photos at the same time and Aziraphale silently cursed himself for not setting up a tripod to capture the action instead. It would have been lovely to get one of those oven mitts in a photo ( _handcrafted with ethically sourced deadstock fabric from some brand that was somehow both heritage and up and coming_ ). If he’d had his head on straight he could have turned this into a sponsored post. It had been on the backburner for weeks now and the company was getting antsy to see a draft, sending gentle reminders every few days. Too late now, he’d work them into the final shots instead.

He tilted the kettle up, slowly filling the pan with steaming water, snapping a series of photos as he did. He took a quick peak at the screen, lips pursed and corners of his mouth turning down in tacit approval. Maybe these wouldn’t be so terrible after all. At least the lighting was good. The moment of quiet contemplation ended abruptly by a terrible cacophony reverberating up through the floorboards. The shuddering high pitched whine of a power drill, one that seemed terribly unhappy at the job it was being asked to do, caused Aziraphale to jump, his knuckles kissing the edge of the 225 degree oven. He yanks his hand away from the bright searing pain, dropping the cheery yellow kettle in the process, spilling boiling water into his perfect pink soufflés. The kettle bounces off the oven rack and spins toward him, the lid skittering away as water splashes out over his lap. He yelps, scrambling backward like he can scoot away from the boiling water currently soaking through his trousers and scorching his thighs.

Aziraphale pats ineffectually at his legs as the water cools and surveys the damage. Three out of the four soufflés were a lost cause. He was already behind schedule and now he’d have to clean up and start over. “Fucking _Crowley_!”

The mysterious new neighbor that had moved into the flat downstairs just over a month prior had been nothing but a nuisance. First came the construction noise. Hammers and table saws and power drills and what could only _possibly_ be someone wailing on the radiator with a large wrench. It started promptly at 7:30 am every day and went late into the afternoon. Aziraphale tried, really, really tried, to be understanding. The lovely woman who had owned the flat previous hadn’t updated in decades and Aziraphale rarely saw anyone popping by for basic maintenance. It was understandable that the new owner would want to fix the place up, modernize it a bit. But the noise was relentless and after just a few days it was driving him up a wall. He was given no reprieve on the weekends as renovations carried on, business as usual.

After three weeks the renovations must have progressed enough that the new owner could move in, although how he lived with the noise during the day was anyone’s guess. Aziraphale suspected, though, that they were allergic to peace and quiet because as soon as the construction noise would end the music would begin. Deep thumping bass on some nights and crashing hi-hats and scratchy guitar riffs on others. By far the most irritating thing, though, was that it seemed that on any given night it was the _same_ song repeating over and over and _over_ again. The music was accentuated by the occasional loud thunk, or curse and was often accompanied by repetitive clicking like stiletto heels on hardwood. Aziraphale could only imagine, lying awake in his bed at night, the goings on downstairs.

His new neighbor was also the source of all manner of minor inconveniences. His kitchen power consistently flickering off and on one afternoon as someone flipped the wrong breaker, switching off the electricity in his kitchen instead of, presumably, the kitchen beneath his ( _repeatedly, mind you. Whomever was doing the electrical work was clearly ill prepared for the job_ ). This absolutely ruined the batch of homemade marshmallows he was working on for a post on gourmet s’mores. The poor things didn’t stand a chance as his mixer surged off and on at random intervals. There was no way to whip enough air into the sticky mixture before it cooled. On another day the water supply for the whole building was shut off for the afternoon. A notice had been posted. Aziraphale, though, would see it only after his shower cut out mid shampoo. He was sure it had not been posted in the requisite amount of time dictated by the building agreement. There were also the paint smells. Aziraphale really didn’t care for the paint smells.

As if all the racket wasn’t enough, there seemed to be a steady stream of young men in and out for the past week as well. None could be older than 25, some of them looked strung out. It wasn’t exactly the company Aziraphale wanted wandering the halls of their building at night, although he tried his best not to judge.

Aziraphale had yet to meet the infamous _Crowley_ and knew them only by their name on the mailbox in the lobby. He had, however, managed to catch sight of a shock of red hair as the door to their flat closed one afternoon. He couldn’t help but imagine matching red devil horns sticking out the other side.

Aziraphale tosses the tray of soufflés into the sink and picks up the annoyingly joyful yellow kettle, slamming it onto the stovetop. His trousers were soaked through and the skin on the top of his thighs burned under the heavy sodden fabric. Cursing under his breath, he yanks the linen trousers down his hips and sheds them onto the kitchen floor where he uses them to sop up the rest of the spilled water before trudging off to the bathroom to drudge up something for his reddened, tingling skin.

After tending to his wounds Aziraphale plops down at the butcherblock kitchen island with his laptop and a ( _very carefully poured_ ) cup of tea and pulls up his post schedule. Éclairs and cannelés were finished, photographed, and written up as well as an American style apple pie and those damn s’mores ( _re-made the day after the electrical incident_ ). He had a sponsored post about some handmade stoneware baking dishes and a number of pre-written Instagram posts referencing blog posts from the archives. He had a bourbon cheesecake post too, but the photos were shit. They’d have to do for now though. That would get him through the next week or so, but he preferred a much larger buffer.

Before _Crowley_ he always had a month’s minimum content ready in advance, but between the constant interruptions and a suffering sleep schedule he’d fallen so far behind he wasn’t sure how he could catch up again. He was going to have to bake for the next week straight and then write for just as long to build up his reserves. He scanned his list of upcoming posts, carefully organized by publication date and internal deadlines, each with a veritable library of reference material linked from the database. Nearly two thirds of the list was flagged as _late_ by the database and the final third would be by the end of the week.

Aziraphale sighs and drops his head into his hands. He had half a mind to go tell Crowley where he could shove his power tools, but his stiff upper lip prevailed. “Right. Best get on with it then.” He scanned the list and mentally reorganized. He would re-do the soufflé now and while it baked he would work on that oven mitt sponsored post. While the soufflé cooled for photos he would whip up a quick cocktail post with that artisanal gin he’d picked up last week. After that he’d mix up a rye loaf which would be ready for an overnight rise in the fridge by the time take-out arrived. Ooh and if he chose strategically he could turn dinner into a review for the local paper for a little extra publicity. He made some quick notes, rearranged his list and set to work.

The soufflés went better the second time around, despite the persistent construction noise that was bound to give Aziraphale an aneurism soon. He even remembered to set up his tripod to capture some photos with those sodding oven mitts when he took them out of the oven. Garbage, they were. He barely got the pan onto the stovetop before his fingers blistered. He would never say as much on the blog, of course. There was no faster way to lose sponsored content. And again, his readers didn’t want reality. They wanted the perfectly imperfect stoneware baking dishes and bespoke linens and artisan whisks and handcrafted cake stands. They wanted ungodly amounts of sweets and they had to be effortless and chic and not add a centimeter to their waistline.

He finished up his charming but entirely untruthful oven mitt post with a note that the photos needed edited and downed the corpse reviver that he had whipped up with that local gin. Not the sunniest cocktail in name. He wondered briefly if he could call it something else on the blog before imagining the comments he would have to wade through if he did. Purists and gatekeepers as far as the eye could see. Whatever. Cheeky brunch post it would be. The stay at home mom crowd would love it. Especially the American ones. That was the real market anyway. He needed to tap into it if he wanted his cookbook dreams to become reality. He glanced at his glass and decided to make another before starting the dough for his rye.

By the time he finished his curry from the new spot down the street Aziraphale was knackered. He glanced at the clock. It was only 9:30 pm. He whipped up another corpse reviver ( _the fourth, but who was counting, really_ ) and set to work on that review. The gin had loosened up all the knots in his body as well as his mind and the words flowed easily. For the first time all week he was beginning to feel relaxed. The alcohol gave him a gentle fuzzy edge around his thoughts and lulled him toward sleep. He saved his draft and took another quick pass through his list. He was going to have to get an early start to get through tomorrow. He needed a showstopper for this month. Something splashy. Croquembouche? Princess cake? Bebinca? He shelved the thought with an internal promise to research first thing in the morning. As soon as that rye loaf was in the oven.

By the time his head finally hit the pillow, on just the wrong side of tipsy venturing toward well and fully drunk, it was nearly 11:00 pm. For what felt like the first time in a week it was quiet in his little flat. A cool spring breeze blew through his cracked windows and he cozied down into a fluffy duvet. This was good. Perfect even. He drifted on the edge of sleep, flashes of pies and cakes behind his eyes as he slowly melted toward slumber.

 _Thump thump thump thump thump thump_. Aziraphale’s eyes flew open. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” he groaned. The heavy repetitive bass made his bed vibrate. He stared at the ceiling, unmoving, through two repeats of the song before he couldn’t take it anymore. Liquid courage in the form of entirely too much gin was pulsing steadily through his body and he had had enough. He threw the duvet off in a rage and stomped across the flat, slamming his door on the way out. Halfway down the stairs his courage began to falter. What was he doing? What was he even going to say? What if this Crowley was unstable? He didn’t have time to fully consider his thoughts. He was a full on gin-marionette and before he even knew what he was doing he was knocking – no, pounding- on the door.

 _Oh fuck_. He just did that, didn’t he? _Oh God_. The music stopped abruptly. His eyes darted back to the stairs. He could make a run for it. Maybe he could make it back into his flat before Crowley even made it to the door. His mind was moving sluggishly. Before he could properly weigh the pros and cons of bolting he heard a steady _click, click, click_ moving toward him. It stopped abruptly and Aziraphale could hear a bit of shuffling on the other side of the door, a clatter, and a door closing inside before the door wrenched open and... _Oh fuck. Oh God._

Aziraphale was staring. No, not staring. He was beyond staring. He was ogling. Gawking. Gaping. Leering. His jaw had quite literally dropped. This was _not_ what he pictured when he imagined what was obviously a sloppy noise demon living downstairs. No horns or pointed tail or pitchfork to be seen, although he did have a curious serpent tattoo on one temple. Aziraphale stared at it skosh too long on the way down and ( _gulp_ ) on the way back up. Crowley sprawled in the threshold, one hand poised over his head, wrist resting against the doorframe, the other on the doorknob, hip jutting sharply to the side, head tilting the opposite direction.

Aziraphale couldn’t see into the flat, but Crowley was dimly backlit in soft red light. It exaggerated the color of his hair, that shock of red he had glimpsed in passing, which was cropped close on the sides and longer up top. It was tousled and stuck to his forehead in places with sweat which also stood in speckled relief against his sharp collarbones. He was wearing a black silk robe tied loosely at the waist and apparently not much else. Aziraphale swallowed thickly as he ogled one tight pink nipple, exposed by the gaping robe, and followed a trickle of sweat over his flushed chest, down his ribcage and lightly defined ab muscles where it skirted around his belly button and disappeared into the thin line of hair leading… _oh god_

Aziraphale dragged his eyes from the subtle V-shape of Crowley’s abs back up to his sharp stubbled jawline and… _sunglasses?_ Why on earth was he wearing sunglasses in his own home in the middle of the night?

Crowley cleared his throat quietly, eyebrows creeping up his forehead. “Um. Can I help you with something?”

Aziraphale sputtered. His mouth felt gummy and dry. All that bravado had evaporated as soon as Crowley had opened the door. “So.. so sorry to be a bother.” He managed. “I was just wondering, if you wouldn’t mind… that is, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble…. if you might be so inclined as to lower the volume of your music.” He looked at his feet sheepishly. _Oh good lord._ It was only then he realized that in his drunken rage he hadn’t considered his wardrobe. He was wearing only a thin white undershirt that clung to every swell and curve of his torso and an old ratty pair of tartan boxers. He crossed his fingers there were no unseemly holes in them. He could feel his ears pink in embarrassment and he moved to cover himself in what he hoped was not an obviously awkward way ( _it definitely was_ ).

When he summoned the courage to look back up Crowley was smiling softly, biting gently at his lower lip and oh dear that did funny things to Aziraphale. Primarily in the groin region. He silently cursed himself and prayed his body would cooperate for the duration of what he also prayed was a very short conversation. “Yeah, sure, no problem love.”

Aziraphale’s heart was pounding. He tried his best to school his features into something neutral but he knew that a grin was tugging at the corners of his lips. “Oh thank you, much appreciated.”

Crowley shifted his weight to the other hip and offered his hand. “Anthony Crowley, by the way. Although most people just call me Crowley. ”

His handshake was gentle, long fingers wrapping around Aziraphale’s thick wrist. Aziraphale noted the calluses on his palm and wondered briefly how those hands would feel on his thighs before shaking the thought away.

“Aziraphale. Aziraphale Fell.”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley rolled the word around on his tongue for a moment. “Quite a mouthful.”

“Yes, I am.” His cheeks flushed at the gaff. “I mean! It! It can be! Quite a mouthful. Quite a… quite a name.” Crowley smirked and his eyebrows peeked over the rim of his sunglasses again as Aziraphale tried to recover. “I’ll just be off then. Again, sorry to be a bother.”

“Not at all.” Crowley was still grinning as Aziraphale spun on his heel and hightailed it back up the stairs.

Aziraphale leaned against the door to his flat and let his head fall back against it with a thunk. Fucking hell, that was a disaster. Why did he have to be so _hot_? How was Aziraphale supposed to hate him when he looked like _that_? His still slightly gin-soaked brain supplied a compromise wherein Aziraphale hate fucked Crowley face down into a shag carpet next to a fucking noguchi coffee table. He seemed the type to be into noguchi coffee tables. He groaned and grabbed his cock through his boxers. When did that happen? Was he hard this whole time? Did Crowley notice? God, it had been a while. After some quick mental math Aziraphale realized he hadn’t gotten laid in almost a year and a half. The last time being some anonymous chap from the local pub. It was fine but over too quickly. A quick fuck and the poor boy was scooping up scattered clothing and hurrying out of Aziraphale’s flat before he could even think to ask for a number. It hadn’t done much for his confidence.

He shuffled off toward his bedroom and flopped onto his back on the downy duvet. His mind continuing to supply a narrative whether he wanted it to or not. He reached into his boxers and took himself in hand as he imagined pushing that silk robe off Crowley’s shoulders. He imagined pressing him to the ground onto all fours, spreading him open with his hands. Aziraphale’s hips twitched up into his palm as he stroked himself faster. He would run his tongue from his balls to his tailbone and dip his tongue inside that tight pucker. Aziraphale threw his arm over his face as his heartbeat raced in his chest, his breathing going ragged. He imagined pressing his cock into that hot waiting hole and taking him. Crowley panting beneath him, _just like that, love_. He moaned into the crook of his elbow and came, hot and sticky, over his fist.

Aziraphale awoke the next morning with a hangover and no insignificant amount of shame. His temples throbbed and the wretched taste in his mouth did little to calm his roiling stomach. His t-shirt clung to his chest, damp with sweat. He glanced at the clock and shot upright in a panic. It was 10:00 am. How did he possibly sleep so late? _Fuck, fuck, fuck_. His rye was surely overproved by now. It should have been in the oven by 8:00 am.

In the kitchen Aziraphale poked at the cold loaf. The indentation from his finger sunk and refused to pop back no matter how hard he willed it to. Definitely overproved. He considered tossing it in the oven anyway, thought better of it. Would only result in a flaccid, disappointing crumb shot. It was all about the crumb shot, after all. With a sigh he scraped the sad sagging loaf into the trash, muttering obscenities under his breath and swearing off gin for the rest of his life. His body was screaming for a hot shower and several gallons of water. He glanced once at his laptop. Behind that dark screen was his list, emblazoned with angry _late_ notices. It haunted him. Maybe it was time to cut back his posting schedule and think seriously about that cookbook. He already had the outline. A history of baked goods going back 6,000 years. Flatbreads and puddings and sweets through the ages. A story for each delectable bite. The daydream was interrupted by a gentle rapping on the door.

Aziraphale scrunched his face in irritation, probably a travelling salesman or an activist of some kind. They were always coming round trying to sell magazine subscriptions or badgering people into signing petitions. With a great deal of sluggishness he padded across his flat toward the door, pulling his housecoat tight around his body. He opened the door, ready to send away his unwanted company and nearly tripped into the hallway instead. “Crowley?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Fuck your noguchi coffee table](https://fuckyournoguchicoffeetable.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I'm (very recently) on twitter now. Is that still a thing people do? Come do whatever the hell it is people do on twitter. But with me. @snae_b


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley reviewed the video and scowled. The lighting was all off. Too dark. You could hardly even see the lines of his body, let alone the details he’d spent so much time perfecting. He was about to reset the song when he was interrupted by someone knocking, no, pounding on his door. He quickly clicked off the music and clomped across his flat, snagging a robe from a hook on the wall and haphazardly looping the tie around his waist. He snatched a pair of sunglasses off a stack of cardboard boxes and slipped them onto his face. He knew it would probably seem weird, but he preferred to avoid any unwanted questions tonight. Two steps from the door he frowned and glanced at his feet. Who knew what kind of wacko was at the door at this hour. Even if it was someone from the building, he didn’t need more grief from nosy neighbors. He slipped his shoes off and dumped them inside his bedroom before turning back to the door.

Crowley opened the door prepared to scowl the late night visitor into submission when - _oh_. He thanked his lucky stars for grabbing those sunglasses. He was sure his pupils were the size of saucers. _Oh, hello sweet little lamb._ Crowley wasn’t sure how long they sat in silence, he was too distracted by fluffy blond wisps of hair and sparkling blue eyes. The gentle curve of the man’s body and the soft peaks where his nipples pressed against the thin fabric of his shirt. He praised someone again for the decision to pop on the sunglasses as he dropped his eyes to the man’s lower half and let his gaze linger. The pastel tartan boxers left little to the imagination and covered even less of those sturdy thick thighs. _Oh god._ Crowley had a serious thing for those thighs already. Even if he never saw the man again he was certain those thighs would still be on his mind on his deathbed. He had a sudden intense desire to drop to his knees and sink his teeth into them.

He realized he was ogling the poor man to death and snapped his eyes back up to find… was that _also_ ogling? Was he being ogled? Tonight was definitely getting interesting. The man was trailing his eyes over his face, slack jawed, but stopped suddenly. He tilted his head just a fraction of an inch and scrunched his brows slightly. Crowley cleared his throat.

“Um. Can I help you with something?” So much for scowling. 

The _literal angel_ in front of him snapped back to attention, a flush spreading across his cheeks. “So.. so sorry to be a bother. I was just wondering…” He was rambling. The man dropped his gaze to the floor but Crowley could see his eyes go wide. He seemed to shrink in on himself and clasped his hands in front of his groin stiffly.

It was all so endearing that Crowley could hardly keep himself from reaching out to comfort him. He wanted to wrap that soft body up in his arms and bury his face in those marshmallow curls and _oh Christ what had gotten into him_. He realized he was grinning and worrying his lip between his teeth.

“Yeah, sure, no problem love.” As soon as it left his lips he wanted to snatch it out of the air and jam it back down his throat. _Love? Love?!_ What had happened to him? He was usually so good at keeping that too cool, aloof mask firmly in place. It had gotten him to where he was today. Hell, it had bought him this flat. He took a deep breath through his nose to keep the internal panic at bay. He was practiced at this part now. At tamping down the constant internal broiling energy. Taming his feelings.

“Oh thank you, much appreciated.” A smile quirked the edges of the man’s soft ( _oh it looked so soft_ ) mouth.

Crowley shifted nervously. He didn’t want the man to leave just yet. Just another minute. He stuck out his hand, and introduced himself, cringing internally at the roughness of his own hand against the soft firm skin it grasped.

“Aziraphale Fell.”

“Aziraphale. Quite a mouthful.” _Quite a mouthful?!_ Seriously. Crowley was pretty sure that his brain was short circuiting. _Who says that?_

“Yes, I am.” Aziraphale sputtered and was blushing furiously and Crowley was able to momentarily ignore his own brilliant conversational skills in light of a very vivid picture of his mouth stretched tight around… “I’ll just be off then. Again, sorry to be a bother.”

Crowley couldn’t help it. He was beaming. This was the furthest thing from a bother he could possibly imagine. “Not at all.” Aziraphale turned and hurried up the stairs. Crowley took the opportunity to enjoy the view, groaning quietly at the jiggling retreating buttocks and muscled thighs. He glanced down at his steadily growing prick and closed the door quietly.

-

Crowley roused slowly the next morning. He lifted his sleep groggy head and glanced at the clock. It was 7:00 am. On a normal day he would drag his tired bones out of bed, chug a pot of black coffee and get started on renovations. He couldn’t drudge up the energy for renovations at the moment. All of his sleepy fleeting thoughts centered on one very handsome blond. He could take the morning off. Things were ahead of schedule, after all. He really only needed to finish hanging kitchen cabinets and wait for counter installation. After that it was just detail work, really. The cabinets could wait. Counters weren’t ready for a few days anyway, there was no harm in relaxing a little. Maybe he could get that video finished. Then again, he’d kept poor Aziraphale up with his music last night. Didn’t want to wake him up first thing in the morning too.

 _Oh shit_. It somehow just occurred to him that he couldn’t possible have just bothered Aziraphale last night. He’d been on a tight recording schedule for the past _two weeks_. Not to mention all the practice for live performances. And if the music was a bother, surely the renovations were no treat either. It was a wonder the man didn’t smite him then and there in his doorway last night. “Fuck. Great job you massive fucking twat.” The most gorgeous man Crowley had ever laid eyes on lived a stone’s throw away and he’d managed to do nothing but irritate him for weeks. He flopped onto his stomach and groaned into the pillow before rolling out of bed, literally, straight onto the floor. The fall was short. His bedframe, along with the rest of his bedroom furniture, was stuck in some warehouse. Several terse phone calls with the shipping company had won him no favor and he hadn’t a clue when it would finally arrive.

He sprawled on the cool hardwood for several minutes staring at the ceiling. Was Aziraphale sleeping directly above him right now? Maybe puttering around in those ridiculous tartan boxers? Or was he in the shower, hot suds running down those sturdy legs? He glanced at his groin again and shrugged. No harm in a little fantasy. Again. He pulled himself off unceremoniously under the hot spray of the shower to the thought of sinking his fingers into those soft thighs. He shuddered as he came, imagining his nose brushing that perfectly plump belly as Aziraphale took his mouth.

In his post-orgasm clarity Crowley decided an apology was in order. He’d been a nuisance. Ok, so he normally didn’t mind being a nuisance. Rather enjoyed it actually. It was liberating now that he had found how to care for himself. To value himself. To finally let things roll off his back like water off of… wait… what was the saying? Oh bugger. When had he last apologized for something? He used to. Constantly. For everything. For speaking too loudly or too boldly. For taking up space. For who he was. He could do this, though. He could apologize to Aziraphale. Easy as anything. He had a sudden terrifying feeling that he would do just about anything for Aziraphale. Like it was written in the stars. He tamped it down.

By 10:30 am Crowley was bounding up the stairs. It might have been sooner had he not spent an inordinate amount of time picking out his outfit and making sure his hair was perfectly mussed. When he got to the door to the flat above his he paused. His heart was racing. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply over five seconds, held it for five more and then exhaled out of his nose for another five. He’d learned all of the centering techniques in the beginning. All the ways to get his anxiety in check. It worked. Usually. As he reached out to knock on the door his hand was still trembling. He knocked anyway.

-

Aziraphale almost ( _almost_ ) forgot that this was now the second time he had met Crowley wearing something completely ridiculous. He was distracted by the threadbare Misfits tee that skimmed over Crowley’s chest and what may have been the tightest jeans he’d ever seen in his life. His hair was perfectly tousled and his eyes were still obscured by sunglasses. Oh shit, Crowley was saying something. _Focus, Aziraphale_.

“…and so I thought I’d come by with a peace offering of sorts. An apology for all the disturbances.” He was holding up a small white box and a cardboard caddy with three cups. “I didn’t know if you took tea or coffee so I brought both.”

He should say something. Why weren’t words coming out of his mouth? His eyes flicked up and found a flash of uncertainty fall across Crowley’s face. “I can just… I’ll just leave them with you and…”

His words rushed back to him “Oh dear, I’m sorry. Please, please, come in.” He stepped aside and held the door open. Crowley walked, well… walked wasn’t exactly the right word, was it? Swayed? Sashayed? Sauntered. He sauntered past Aziraphale straight to the kitchen island where he set down his bounty. Was this really happening? Aziraphale stared at the sharp jut of Crowley’s hips where he leaned against the butcherblock. His thoughts drifted to last night and he could feel a heat in his cheeks. It was absurd, but it felt like Crowley _knew_ what he’d done. That he’d taken himself in hand on the other side of the bedroom door. He shook off the thought and crossed to the kitchen.

As Aziraphale approached Crowley popped open the box to reveal an assortment of buttery flaky pastry. “I hope you like sweets. What’ll it be then? Coffee or tea?”

“Oh, um, tea for me. But really, you didn’t need to go through all the trouble. I shouldn’t have been so brash last night.”

“Oh come now, you were hardly brash.” He picked up the pastry box and held it out to Aziraphale.

“Well, I suppose I can hardly resist.” He chose a golden brown croissant and brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply before taking a bite. It was magnificent. Still warm. All those buttery laminated layers separated by airy pockets. It was a pastry he was still attempting to perfect himself, but he could never get the crumb quite right. He chewed slowly, savoring the flavor and texture. He licked his lips and realized he’d closed his eyes. When he opened them he found Crowley looking away quickly. “Oh, that is very good.” Crowley kept his face downcast but Aziraphale could see the proud smirk plastered there.

“Anyway, I don’t want to keep you or anything. Just… like I said. Wanted to say sorry.”

Aziraphale wanted to maintain a grudge. He really did. Crowley was making it very hard ( _ahem_ ). “All is forgiven.” He thought he caught a slight blush dust the tops of Crowley’s cheeks. “I’m so sorry to have to cut our visit short, but I really need to get freshened up.” He shot Crowley a shy grin. “Rough night. Some absolute fiend blasting bepop half the night.”

Crowley barked out a laugh, “Bebop! Oh you are a gem, Aziraphale. A real treasure.” Aziraphale huffed and ushered Crowley to the door.

“Thank you, Crowley, for coming by. And for the, uh, peace offering. It is delicious.”

“I’ll see you around?”

Aziraphale felt brave. “I should hope so.”

-

By noon Aziraphale had showered and conquered most of his hangover with substantial amounts of water and tea and leftover curry. Only the stubborn edge of a headache remained. He had even managed to start another batch of rye which was slowly rising and would be ready to shape and pop in the fridge by that evening. He’d lost almost a half a day of work, though, and desperately needed to work on some catch up. He stared at his list with his chin in his hands. Rye, check. Next on the docket were an assortment of biscuits, macarons, and profiteroles. A pavlova. A pear tart. He would need to pop by the shops for a few things. He made a short list for today’s bakes and a separate longer list for the rest of the week. He would make a quick trip now so he could get started quickly and a longer one tomorrow morning for the rest. Shouldn’t take more than 30 minutes to get there and back and then he could get to work.

-

When Aziraphale returned home exactly 27 minutes after departing he found he couldn’t even reach his door. The small landing in front of his flat was stacked floor to ceiling with large crates and boxes. How did they even appear here so quickly? There was hardly even room to squeeze through and continue up the stairs. That stuffy American that lived upstairs ( _Gabriel, ugh_ ) was going to have a field day with this one. He loved taking little jabs at Aziraphale. Never good enough for Gabriel. He didn’t know why he cared so much what that smug turd thought, but he couldn’t help himself. Aziraphale shifted his bag of groceries onto his hip and took a closer look at the label. SHIP TO: _Anthony J. Crowley_. Rolling his eyes, but singing inside, he set his groceries on the top step and trudged back down the stairs.

When Crowley answered the door he looked simultaneously pleased and confused. “Aziraphale, uh, hey. What’s up?”

“I seem to uh, have received something of yours by mistake?” Crowley looked down to Aziraphale’s hands expectantly and then back up to his face. “Um, you might want to come have a look.”

At the top of the stairs Crowley stared in disbelief at the towering packages. “How in the hell… what… I’ve been home all morning!”

“It looks like the flat number was wrong.”

Crowley leaned in and squinted at the shipping label. “Oh bollocks. I must have… Oh god you can’t even get inside.” He groaned. “I’m sorry. Again.” Crowley crossed one arm across his chest and rested his chin in the palm of his other hand, evaluating the situation. He reached out tentatively and tilted a long narrow box toward himself and with some effort began dragging it down the stairs. Aziraphale scrambled to grab the other end. Crowley stopped. “You really don’t… I can get it.” Aziraphale pursed his lips stubbornly. “Seriously. I’ve been such a burden already. I’ll just clear a path to your door.”

“Nonsense. It will go much faster together.” Crowley hesitated but relented. Aziraphale was right about it going faster. And he could hardly object to a few more minutes together. He hadn’t been sure that morning when he would find an excuse to see him again.

One by one they hauled the boxes down the stairs and into Crowley’s flat. Aziraphale may or may not have taken every possible opportunity to admire the lean muscle in Crowley’s forearms and biceps. Crowley was long and narrow and sharp and angled but there was obvious muscle definition as he lifted and heaved the awkward heavy boxes. Aziraphale was reminded of those taut abs he’d been able to steal a lingering glance at ( _aka ogle_ ) last night.

When the last box was inside Aziraphale finally took in his surroundings. Crowley’s flat was indeed clean and modern, although there wasn’t a noguchi coffee table or shag carpet in sight. The kitchen looked to be mid-reno but Aziraphale was already envious. Every appliance was high end. The built in island was three times the size of his own. The upper cabinets were still shrink wrapped, corners nestled in durable cardboard bumpers and lined up neatly against the living room wall. Even in the half finished state, though, it was a chef’s dream. The living room was spare and full of unpacked moving boxes. It was occupied by a clean leather sofa, a couple of designer chairs that looked vaguely familiar and a massive flat screen TV mounted on the wall opposite.

Aziraphale gasped as he looked beyond the sitting area toward the floor to ceiling windows, the same windows that graced his own flat, and one of the major selling points when he chose the space. Plants. Dozens and dozens of them lined the space. Verdant and lush, the likes of which he’d only ever seen in a professional conservatory. Grand palms and sprawling monstera and the largest fern he’d ever seen. Orchids and succulents and cacti. One particularly impressive philodendron spilled out of its pot and crept along the entire length of the window. It was stunning. 

“Oh Crowley!” Aziraphale hadn’t the foggiest idea the effect that had had on Crowley. “You have quite the green thumb.”

He snorted. “Hardly. Those plants just know what happens if they don’t perform well enough.” He dragged a finger across his throat. 

Aziraphale chuckled. “They are really lovely.” When he turned around Crowley was already ripping open one of the boxes, exposing a honey colored swath of wood beneath.

“Fucking finally!” He looked up at a slightly startled Aziraphale “Furniture. Been sleeping on the floor for the past three weeks.” Crowley pulled out the assembly directions and flipped through them quickly, frowning. It was tome. “Well… maybe one more night on the floor then. This is going to take ages.”

“I don’t supposed you’d, uh, like a hand in assembling?”

Crowley snapped his head up. “What? Oh… oh. Um. I’ve already taken up so much of your day. I wouldn’t want to be a bother again.”

“Really, it isn’t a bother at all. I didn’t have plans.” Oh god, that was a monumental lie. Why was he doing this? He was going to be up half the night now. This was a terrible idea.

Crowley looked up at him with such genuine gratitude and affection that Aziraphale realized exactly why he was doing this. “I suppose I could use a hand.”

Aziraphale dropped to his knees next to Crowley and took the directions. “Looks like we’ll need these three boxes,” he said, pointing them out from among the chaos, “and a few tools. Do you have these?” He pointed at some illustrations inside the cover.

“I’m sure I do. Can’t install a shower without a wrench.”

Aziraphale gaped. “Are you doing the renovations yourself?”

“Ah, well. Most of them. Contract out the electrical and some of the plumbing. Have some guys coming to install the countertops.” Aziraphale nearly swooned imagining Crowley in a tool belt and, well, maybe just the tool belt.

“Is that what you do for a living? Are you a contractor or a builder or something?”

Crowley chuckled. “Ah, nah. I’m, um… in entertainment. My father taught me this stuff when I was a kid. He was in the trades.”

“Well I’m sure he’s proud of you now. Your flat looks amazing. And I know those appliances. You must be doing very well for yourself.”

Crowley’s grin faltered momentarily. “We’re not really, ah… close… these days. Doesn’t exactly approve of my,” Crowley mimed quotes in the air with his fingers. “lifestyle.”

Aziraphale cringed. He understood the subtext all too well. “Oh, oh dear. I’m sorry to hear it. My family wasn’t exactly the most supportive when I came out either. But we’re working on it.”

Crowley cleared his throat, eager to change the subject. “What about you. How do you spend your days?”

“I write. A blog. I’m a blogger. Oh lord. Why am I always embarrassed to say that?” Aziraphale chuckled at himself. “I run a baking blog. So your little apology this morning was very spot on.”

“Must be popular if it pays the mortgage.”

“It does well enough. Was running a little more smoothly before I got this awful new neighbor.” He winked and Crowley laughed.

“I really am sorry. I forget sometimes that this place isn’t soundproof.”

The two fell into an easy rapport as the afternoon passed, trading stories and teasing one another gently. They only had to deconstruct and reassemble one piece of furniture, owing to Crowley’s complete and utter distraction when Aziraphale paused to roll his sleeves up to his elbows. Aziraphale was able to almost forget about his lingering headache. _Almost_. By early evening they had assembled two dressers, two nightstands, a vanity (which Aziraphale had teased Crowley mercilessly about), and finally what was quite possibly the largest bed Aziraphale had ever seen.

Together they hauled the mattress onto the wooden slat frame and snapped on a creamy white linen fitted sheet. Aziraphale ran a hand over the wrinkled linen. “Would have guessed you were more of a silk guy.”

“Nah, not enough traction.” Aziraphale choked out a laugh and Crowley grimaced at himself.

“Well. What now?”

Crowley quirked an eyebrow in Aziraphale’s direction before abruptly jumping onto the mattress and proceeding to bounce around like a gleeful child. He waved encouragingly at Aziraphale. “Come on! Get up here”

“Oh I don’t think that’s a good idea. We aren’t all light as a feather.”

“Oh shut up! C’mon. You gotta. ‘S a new bed requirement.” Aziraphale hesitated. “I promise you’ll enjoy it. Come. On. Don’t make me beg. I’ll do it.” Aziraphale was quite certain that watching Crowley beg would only serve to embarrass them both. Crowley stopped bouncing for a moment and held out a hand. With an exaggerated eye roll Aziraphale acquiesced, taking Crowley’s hand and climbing up onto the mattress. He gave a couple of small, experimental bounces. “See! S’fun!” He bounced higher, encouraged by Crowley’s energetic flailing.

For a while they were lost in the childlike innocence of it all. Aziraphale couldn’t remember if he’d ever jumped on a bed. For the first time in months he was completely at ease. He was a grown man. Holding hands with another grown man. Jumping on a bed. He realized at some point they had both started laughing. Then they were laughing so hard they had tears streaming down their faces. Unable to stay upright, Crowley flopped onto his back, dragging Aziraphale down with him. They found themselves laying side by side, giggling and wiping tears from their cheeks. They were still holding hands. Neither seemed to want to be the first to break contact. 

Finally Crowley gently released Aziraphale’s fingers, bringing one hand up to remove his sunglasses and using the other to wipe his eyes. Aziraphale rolled his head to the side to gaze at Crowley and was doubly gobsmacked: first by the stunning honey brown eyes that met his own and second by the sprawling yellow and purple bruise surrounding one of them.

“Oh goodness, Crowley!” He instinctively reached out and brushed his thumb over the fading edges of the bruise, rolling onto his side in the process.

“Fuck. Um. Don’t worry about it.” He forced a chuckle and waved the glasses in the air. “Hence the whole, sunglasses at night thing.”

Aziraphale gnawed at his lip. “Is, um. Is everything ok? Are you… ah…safe?”

Crowley’s heart surged. This was Aziraphale. So conscientious of the possibilities that he didn’t ask what happened. Didn’t pry. So unyieldingly kind that even though they hadn’t known each other for 24 hours he was only worried for Crowley’s safety. He hadn’t said as much, but Crowley knew if he’d needed it, that Aziraphale would have given the clothes off his back to help.

Crowley waved him off. “Oh no, no, no. Nothing like that. Just a bit of an occupational hazard. I just, ah, fell. Is all.” Aziraphale looked unconvinced, “Seriously, it’s nothing to worry about. My own fault. Honest to God.” Crowley was desperate to change the subject. He wasn’t quite ready for Aziraphale to discover that part of him yet. Even though he knew it was best to get it all out in the open. As much as he knew he should rip the bandaid off now, avoid the potential for future heartbreak, he couldn’t bring himself to. He didn’t want to ruin things before they had even began. “Thank you for all of your help today, by the way. You’re a real angel.”

Aziraphale snorted. “Just, trying to be a good neighbor.” He flicked his eyes up to meet Crowley’s. They twinkled with a mischievous glint. “Unlike some people.”

Crowley rolled onto his side to face Aziraphale, jaw dropped in mock affront, “Oi! I brought you sweets! And don’t even try to say you didn’t like them. I’m pretty sure I’ve only heard noises like that during sex!” _Oh god. Where did his filter go?_

Aziraphale’s cheeks pinked but he didn’t turn away. “What can I say? I enjoy life’s pleasures.” Crowley lips twitched. A flash of pink tongue darting out to wet them. They were so close. Aziraphale could close the distance in a breath. Would Crowley like that? Was he reading the signals right? It had been so long. They’d only even met less than 24 hours ago.


	3. Chapter 3

_Aziraphale’s cheeks pinked but he didn’t turn away. “What can I say? I enjoy life’s pleasures.” Crowley lips twitched. A flash of pink tongue darting out to wet them. They were so close. Aziraphale could close the distance in a breath. Would Crowley like that? Was he reading the signals right? It had been so long. They’d only even met less than 24 hours ago._

To think that this morning when he woke up he was sure that today would be a disaster. The despair he felt poking that sad ball of dough. _Oh fuck. The rye!_

Aziraphale sat bolt upright in a panic, “Oh no!” How had he forgotten about the rye? Surely by now it was bordering on overproved _again_. If he got it in the fridge right now, he might be able to save it.

Crowley scrambled upright beside him, face pinched. “Aziraphale… is.. uh..”

“Sorry! Sorry, I have to go. I’m so sorry!”

“Did I… um. I’m sorry?”

“No! No, dear. I just forgot about something. I’m so sorry. Maybe we could, ah. Grab a bite? Tomorrow? Lunch?”

Some of the tension melted out of Crowley’s shoulders, which had begun to inch up toward his ears. “Yeah, yeah. I’d like that. I could pop by around noon?”

Aziraphale smiled and glanced at his lap. He spoke softly. “It’s… it’s a date then.”

Crowley mirrored his sheepish smile. “Yeah. It’s a date.” Aziraphale scooted off the edge of the bed and started for the door. “Thanks again for all your help today, Angel.” Aziraphale hummed lightly and stepped out of the bedroom toward the door. _Oh good lord. Angel? How was Aziraphale making him this uncool_. Crowley flopped back onto the bed, grinning like an idiot despite himself. “It’s a date.” He said to the empty room

-

Back in his own flat, reality came crashing back down on Aziraphale. He manhandled his dough into sloppy loaves and tossed them into the fridge as quickly as possible. He could feel his laptop lingering behind him. All of those angry red _lates_ haunting him. How had he gotten so wrapped up in Crowley that he had completely ignored his work? His headache was clawing back to the forefront. And now he’d asked Crowley for lunch tomorrow. There goes another afternoon of work. He wanted to be annoyed. He was annoyed. But he couldn’t keep from smiling. A date. With Crowley. He sighed. Totally worth it. He’d just have to stay up tonight to catch up for today _and_ tomorrow. Then he could relax and enjoy lunch instead of getting distracted. He was going to need tea. Very large amounts of tea.

-

Crowley was startled awake early the next morning by a loud thud, then several smaller thuds followed by a low groan. A vaguely familiar sounding groan. Curiosity piqued, he slipped out of bed, stepped into a pair of joggers and pulled a t-shirt over his head. He trudged to the door on bare feet and peeked into the stairwell. Outside his door was a single pear, sitting perfectly upright as if someone had placed it there. He stared at it for a moment before glancing up the stairs where he found a smattering of fruit. Two fat oranges, another pear, an upturned carton of strawberries. He followed the trail up and found… “Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale was sitting on the top stair, slumped forward slightly. He was scrubbing at his face with both hands and surrounded by three toppled grocery bags, their contents spilled on the landing and scattered on the uppermost stairs. His head snapped up. “Crowley?”

His face was ashen, dark circles painted under his eyes. “Everything ok? You don’t look so good.”

Aziraphale was shivering slightly. “I’m fine. Just, just didn’t get much sleep last night s’all.” He glanced around at the mess around him, forced a chuckle. “Just, tripped, I guess.”

Crowley shuffled out of his flat and up the stairs, collecting the bruised fruit along the way. At the top of the stairs he dumped the fruit into one of the paper bags and reached out a hand. Aziraphale took it begrudgingly and Crowley hauled him back to his feet. The upward momentum was greater than Aziraphale anticipated and he stumbled slightly, straight into Crowley’s arms, his cheek pressing firmly against his shoulder.

“Angel! You’re burning up!”

Aziraphale straightened, yanking away. “Nonsense. I’m just tired. Just a little stumble.” Crowley pressed his hand to Aziraphale’s cheek and he couldn’t help but lean into the cool touch.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You are sick.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I don’t have time to be sick.” He knelt down and started gathering the spilled groceries, tossing thick wedges of butter and paper bags of flour into the grocery bags at random.

“Leave it, Aziraphale. I’ll take care of it. Let’s just get you into bed.”

“I’m fine, really.”

Crowley put on the most authoritative voice he could muster. “Bed. Now.”

Even in his state the demand sent a shiver down Aziraphale’s spine and lit a spark deep in his gut. He hoped he could blame the flush creeping up his neck on the fever. With some effort he dragged himself back to his feet and got his door unlocked.

“Go on. I’ll get this cleaned up.” Crowley watched Aziraphale trudge into his flat while he gathered up everything into the bags and carried them into the flat. He hadn’t taken a good look around the morning before, distracted as he was by his nerves. The space was predictably cozy. Overstuffed sofa piled with soft blankets. A heavy leather chair with a permanent bum impression. One wall was lined with cheap ikea bookshelves piled high with books, each shelf sagging in the middle from the weight. A couple of straggly plants, reaching for the sunlight.

Crowley drifted toward the kitchen. Once there, though, he found every possible inch of available counter surface was occupied. There had to have been more than a dozen different varieties of baked goods and the sink was overflowing with whisks and measuring cups and mixing bowls. The counters were all dusted in flour and sugar and there was a rather anemic looking plate of biscuits in a small lightbox. He nudged a laptop aside to make room for the new grocery bags and the screen flickered to life.

He didn’t mean to peek, but the angry red notices caught his eye. It was a list of baked goods that, had he had the audacity to scroll, would have gone on for quite some time. He glanced at the list and then at the baked goods around the kitchen. It was only 6:30 am and the kitchen had not looked like this yesterday afternoon. Had Aziraphale spent all night baking? Crowley’s heart sank. Aziraphale had stuck around all afternoon helping him at the expense of his own work, not to mention his health.

He’d just have to make it up to him. Swoop in and save the day. For some reason it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Crowley stepped cautiously into the bedroom to find Aziraphale already curled up under the duvet. “How’re we doing, Angel?” Aziraphale only groaned quietly in response. “I brought you something for the fever.” The pillowy cream colored duvet shifted slightly and one baby blue eye peeked out. Crowley took it as an invitation and crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed. He reached out a hand with two small red pills and the other with a glass of water. Aziraphale pushed himself up on an elbow and took the pills, tossing them into his mouth, followed by the water.

He shrank back down into the billowing duvet. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel our lunch.” 

Without thinking, Crowley reached out and pushed a stray curl from Aziraphale’s forehead. “Raincheck then.”

Aziraphale chased the touch like a cat seeking out a friendly hand. “Mmm. Feels good. Cool.” Crowley smiled and pressed his palm against Aziraphale’s cheek for a second time that morning, earning a smile and a contented sigh from him. He stayed like that for a long while, until Aziraphale began to snore softly, warm huffs of breath ghosting over Crowley’s wrist. Reluctantly he slipped away.

-

Aziraphale stirred, lingering somewhere between consciousness and sleep. He dreamed of muffins and of animal names murmured by a quiet feminine voice. Like a sultry see-and-say. Something about cows and lizards and crows. When Aziraphale opened his eyes the sun was streaming brightly into his bedroom windows. His mouth was dry, but his headache had abetted. He glanced at his nightstand and found a glass of water which he sipped gratefully. As he stretched his stiff muscles he heard the voice again. The one from his dream. It sounded like jibberish to him. It certainly wasn’t English. Had he left some international program on? He padded gingerly to his bedroom door and cast his gaze around.

He was caught off guard by what he found, considered for a moment if he was still in a fever dream. There was Crowley. Squatting in his living room in the bright morning light… shirtless? It was a pleasant but very confusing sight. He looked around the room like someone might pop out and explain exactly what was going on. Aziraphale opened his mouth to speak when he was interrupted by the dream voice again.

“ _Bird of paradise, right side_.” Oh, so not a dream? He watched in stunned silence as Crowley rose slightly on his haunches and slipped his hand under his right thigh. His left arm snaked behind his back and he clasped his hands behind his right hip. Aziraphale’s eyes widened as Crowley continued to rise up, supported by his left foot, dragging his right leg up with his joined arms. Once his spine was straight Crowley extended his right leg in a straight line toward the ceiling, toe pointed. _Oh god oh god oh god._ This was definitely stirring something inside Aziraphale. The sultry see-and-say made more cues and Aziraphale watched quietly as Crowley slowly lowered his leg back to the floor and, while keeping his arms bound under his right leg, extended his left behind him.

Crowley moved through a handful of poses as Aziraphale stared on, lost in the fluid movements of his body. _“Puppy dog pose._ ”

 _Oh,_ thought Aziraphale, _that sounds cute_. Aziraphale nearly choked as Crowley, from his current position on his hands and knees, slid his hands forward, bringing his chest and chin to the floor while his hips stayed high. He slapped his hand over his mouth to muffle the sputtering gasp that escaped, but it was too late. Crowley slipped forward the rest of the way onto his belly and craned his neck around to look toward Aziraphale. He burst into a smile.

“Aziraphale! You’re awake!”

Aziraphale coughed and rubbed at the back of his neck, desperately willing his cock into submission. If Crowley noticed the bulge in the front of his pajamas, he didn’t make any indication of it. “Crowley! You’re still here.” Crowley stood and crossed the room in a few short strides. He pressed his hand to Aziraphale’s forehead. “Seems like your fever is finally gone. How are you feeling though?”

“A little stiff, but otherwise fine. How long was I out?”

Crowley scrunched his nose in thought for a minute. “Hmm. Twenty six hours or so?”

“Twenty six hours?!”

Crowley winced. “I hope you don’t mind. Every time I tried to go you’d start tossing and turning and groaning and I was worried you wouldn’t take your fever reducers without me forcing them on you. I slept on the couch. Perfect gentleman, promise.”

Aziraphale couldn’t quite lift his jaw off the ground. “Twenty six hours… oh god. Oh god. I… Oh god. ” He hurried toward the kitchen. “I didn’t even get photos! Oh god. Twenty six hours?” He stopped dead in his tracks. “Crowley? Crowley where are the bakes?” The kitchen counters were spotless. Aziraphale had never seen the space so tidy. “Where are the bakes, Crowley?!”

“Oh.. um.. I may have accidentally seen your list. I wasn’t snooping, promise! Felt bad you were up all night and then you were so sick. And so. I may have. Helped out?”

Aziraphale whirled around to face Crowley, eyes wild. “What do you mean, ‘helped out.’”

“Oh, here. Let me just… just give me a second.” He disappeared into the living room and came back with his own laptop and plunked it on the island. He sat down at one of the stools and gestured for Aziraphale to do the same. He clicked around into a few folders and opened up an album. “I cleaned up the kitchen and took some photos. Everything is packaged up over there or in the fridge.” He gestured to a tidy stack of Tupperware containers on the counter opposite as he opened up a photo to show Aziraphale.

It was a beautifully composed and edited photo. A close up shot of artfully arranged biscuits. Each cut into a diamond shape, dipped halfway in white chocolate and dusted with crushed pistachios and flakes of dried rose petals. Aziraphale drew back. “I don’t remember making those. Was I that out of it?”

“Oh, um. Well. I made those. Actually.” Crowley chewed on his lip. “Like I said, saw your list. Thought I’d help. Did the pavlova and pear tart too.” He scrolled through a dozen perfectly edited photos as Aziraphale stared, lost for words. “I don’t know how they’ll taste! I went for style over substance. And then applied a healthy dose of Photoshop.” He glanced at the stunned look on Aziraphale’s face. “I hope I didn’t overstep. I just.. I felt so bad. You spent all that time at mine…” Crowley jumped as Aziraphale pulled him into a tight hug. It took him a moment to register what was happening before he tentatively slipped his arms around Aziraphale’s waist. He realized Aziraphale’s shoulders were shaking.

“Aziraphale, are you… are you crying?”

Aziraphale pulled himself away and wiped a tear from his cheek. “I don’t remember the last time anyone showed me this much kindness. I don’t know that I deserve it.”

“You do! And anyway, this was my fault. I wanted to make it up to you.” Crowley reached out and wiped another stray tear from Aziraphale’s chin. “I thought, if you’re feeling better, we could tackle the rest of your list. Together. It would go faster that way.” He winked, “Could order dinner in when we’re done. You know. Make up for that date?”

“Crowley…”

“I made soup too, in case you got hungry.” Crowley chuckled. “Snored right through lunch and dinner yesterday, though, so I popped it in the fridge. Heats up well enough.”

“Crowley.”

“C’mon. Let me help. I want to.”

Aziraphale didn’t want to say no. He wanted to spend the day with Crowley. Again. So he didn’t. He decided to indulge. “Ok. But first, where’s that pear tart?”

-

And so Aziraphale and Crowley spent another day together. Aziraphale taught Crowley how to make choux pastry and Crowley shared his favorite pizza recipe, demonstrating an expert dough toss. Aziraphale pretended not to be impressed. ( _He was very impressed._ ) Crowley fussed over Aziraphale all day, making him take breaks and drink water and ladling an extra-large bowl of chicken noodle soup for lunch despite Aziraphale’s protestations that he felt much better. They worked together like they’d been doing so for millennia, perfectly attuned to each other’s movements, anticipating each other’s needs.

In the evening, surrounded by pastry in various posed tableau, they popped open a bottle of red, despite Crowley’s protestations that Aziraphale should take it easy. They ordered Thai and popped a second bottle. They watched dumb videos on YouTube and popped a third.

“’M just saying” Crowley slurred. He was sprawled halfway across the kitchen island, head propped up in his palm. “you’re wrong. Trees. They talk. T’each other. All the time.”

“You” Aziraphale hiccupped, “are just making this up. Your…” he gestured vaguely in Crowley’s direction. “You. You just like to hear yourself speak.”

“You love it.” Crowley was grinning up at him.

“Mmph. I can think of a dozen better uses for that mouth.” Aziraphale froze, eyes bugging as he realized what he’d said. Crowley stood upright immediately, smirking and dragging his eyes over Aziraphale. He swayed around the kitchen island to where Aziraphale was perched, amazingly upright, on one of the stools. Aziraphale could hear his pulse pounding inside his head as the distance between them shrank to almost nothing at all.

Crowley pressed in close, nudging Aziraphale’s knees open with his own as he slotted himself between his thighs. All pretense was flying straight out the window. There was no question where this was going. What Crowley wanted. What they _both_ wanted. “Can you now?” Aziraphale held his breath as Crowley skimmed his fingertips over the outside of his thighs, tracing invisible letters against the soft wool of his trousers.

“I…” Aziraphale swallowed and tilted his head up to find Crowley staring down at him, an intensity in his eyes that went straight to his cock. He reached out with trembling fingers and let his hand fall on the sharp crest of Crowley’s hip, squeezing gently. His eyes lingered there. Crowley fit so beautifully in the palm of his hand. Like two halves of a sculpture that had split down the middle. “Crowley…”

Crowley brought a hand up to Aziraphale’s jaw and tilted his face back. Aziraphale could feel the heat of him. He could smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Crowley. Wait.” Crowley tilted his head curiously. “You’re drunk. I’m… I’m drunk. Properly pissed. I…” He hesitated.

“Tell me.”

“This isn’t how I want it.” He whispered. Crowley went to pull away and Aziraphale reached out for him. He wasn’t drunk enough to mess this up completely. “I wanna remember…alluvit.”

Crowley leaned back into Aziraphale’s space, stroked his fingers up and down Aziraphale’s thigh. “Yeah… Yeah I get it. You’re right.”

“Tomorrow. If... I mean… If you still… want. This.” He gestured vaguely around himself and the few inches separating them.

“Can I kiss you? Just once. Tide me over until morning?” Aziraphale nodded. He couldn’t _not_. Crowley wrapped his fingers around Aziraphale’s chin and brought their mouths together, softly at first. And it was like waking up. Aziraphale hadn’t realized he was asleep until this moment. Crowley’s fingers dug into Aziraphale’s thigh as he pressed forward with his hips and lips at the same time, hand shifting to cup the back of Aziraphale’s head. His tongue found Aziraphale’s lower lip and he opened in response. Crowley kissed him slowly. Deeply. His tongue grazing Aziraphale’s teeth. Aziraphale chased the smoky taste of wine and Crowley sucked his tongue into his mouth. Aziraphale slipped his other hand around Crowley’s waist and pulled him forward just as Crowley broke the kiss and stood ( _mostly_ ) upright.

Aziraphale stared up into Crowley’s honey eyes, fireworks exploding under his ribcage. _Oh fuck._ “Oh _fuck_.”

Crowley smirked. “See you in the morning, Angel.” He turned on his heel and sauntered out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I won't leave you hanging long. Chapter 4 will go up tomorrow!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really earning that E rating at last. Enjoy!

It must have been some minor miracle that Aziraphale wasn’t hungover the next morning. He couldn’t tamp down the giddiness as he showered and dressed. That kiss. _Wow_. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been kissed like that. Like the object of desire instead of just a means to an end. And Crowley had kept his promise. Just one kiss. Aziraphale knew his resolve would have crumbled had Crowley pushed. Or even if he hadn’t pushed, but had simply let Aziraphale do the pushing.

He smiled to himself as he sipped at his steaming mug of tea. The clock on the oven said it was only just after seven. His stomach flipped in anticipation of when he’d see Crowley again. When they might be able to pick up where they left off. A knock on the door and Aziraphale was on his feet immediately.

He beamed, “Speak of the devil.” To say that Aziraphale walked to the door would be a lie. To say he wiggled there would be a more accurate assessment. “They say the early bird…” The words shriveled up and died on his tongue. Crowley was not standing at his door. Crowley did not have a smile like an angry xylophone. Or eyes that oozed condescension, no matter the expression. No. This was not Crowley. This approximation of a human being was Gabriel. Aziraphale’s smile faltered into something approaching a grimace before he could plaster on a smile that didn’t stretch beyond his lips.

“Gabriel…”

“Az! Buddy. Just thought I’d swing by to check in. Awful lot of racket down here last night.” Gabriel leaned around to peek into the flat.

“Oh, my apologies. Just… visiting with a…” there was a click and the door at the bottom of the stairwell opened. _Crowley._ Aziraphale’s smile burned genuine again. “a friend.”

“Uh huh, right.” Gabriel stared down at Aziraphale’s midsection with barely veiled revulsion. “Still working on that little blog I see. Might want to cut back, bud.” He jabbed a finger harshly into the soft pad of fat around Aziraphale’s middle, breaking Aziraphale from his Crowley-induced reverie. “Kind of letting yourself go there.” Aziraphale could see a sliver of Crowley, silent and still in his doorway, hand on the doorknob. “Not going to hold onto many _friends_ like that. At least not any serious ones.” In the distance he saw Crowley slink back inside his apartment, the door clicking quietly behind him.

Aziraphale’s stomach dropped out from under him. Was Crowley _embarrassed_? Didn’t want Gabriel to see them together? _Oh god_ , was Gabriel right? Maybe he’d gotten a little softer in recent years. That happened with age, right? But Crowley, they were about the same age and he was slim. Not just slim. Proper _fit_. All lean muscle. Was Crowley just as disappointed in his body but too kind to say anything?

Aziraphale was spiraling. His insecurities were strangling him and he couldn’t escape them. Gabriel was still talking but he couldn’t quite track the words. He resorted to nodding and humming occasionally. Eventually Gabriel was slapping him on the shoulder and jogging down the stairs. Aziraphale closed the door quietly and sank against it. And today had started out _so well_.

Aziraphale’s heart leapt in his chest at the sound of knuckles on hardwood. _Fuck_. What did Gabriel want _now?_ He stood reluctantly and stared at the rich grain of the door. He could just _not_ answer. Pretend he was in the shower. He was still on autopilot, his hand reaching for the knob before he knew what he was doing. As soon as Aziraphale opened the door Crowley was pushing in, pressing close, deft fingers circling Aziraphale’s wrists and pulling, collapsing the space between them immediately.

Aziraphale was confused, breathless. “Crowley?”

“That guy is such a wanker. Can’t believe he snuck away before I got a chance to set him to rights. He can’t talk to you like that.”

The knot in Aziraphale’s stomach began to loosen. Crowley wasn’t embarrassed? He hadn’t changed his mind? “You… you still…”

Crowley paused, eyes searching Aziraphale’s face. He looked shy for a moment. Nervous even. It was the first time Aziraphale had seen his mask slip. Seen him _not_ overflowing with confidence. “Of _course_ I do. Do you…?”

Aziraphale released the breath he was holding. “Yeah, yeah, course.” Crowley visibly relaxed, tension melting off his bones.

“I brought you something. Almost forgot it, but that chode reminded me.” Crowley waggled his brows as he held up a little white bag, top folded down and held in place with an embossed golden circle. Aziraphale recognized it immediately. He’d indulged many times in the decadent truffles and bon bons from the little French chocolatier around the corner. But Gabriel’s slight still sat heavy on his chest. He glanced down at the curve of his belly and tried to still his quivering lip. A heat crept up his cheeks. A potent cocktail of anger and shame. He’d never been one to deny himself. He’d never been one to feel badly about his body. What was it about Gabriel’s words that had cut so deeply?

Crowley pressed cool fingers to Aziraphale’s jaw and tilted his face back up. “None of that. Come here.” With a gentle tug of his hand Crowley led him to the sofa, pushing him down into the well-worn cushions. Aziraphale gasped as Crowley wasted no time crawling onto him, toes digging into the seat on either side of Aziraphale’s thighs and his knees resting against his waist. He had hoped that this was the direction the day would take, but he wasn’t expecting Crowley’s boldness in the absence of the safety net of inebriation. Aziraphale’s palms found Crowley’s hips immediately, instinctively, resting gently there. Again Aziraphale was struck by how well they slotted together. How right it felt to sink into one another.

Crowley ripped the small white bag open with no finesse, reaching inside and drawing out a perfectly domed chocolate adorned with thick craggy flakes of salt. Setting the bag onto the arm of the sofa, Crowley reached out and brushed his fingers against Aziraphale’s lips.

Aziraphale parted his mouth with a sigh. Crowley ran his thumb along his lower lip, grazing Aziraphale’s teeth before pressing in to open his mouth further. With his other hand Crowley slipped the chocolate onto Aziraphale’s tongue. Aziraphale closed his eyes and savored the bitterness of the dark chocolate as it melted in the heat of his mouth. He bit into the decadent treat and as rich salted caramel spilled onto his tongue Crowley leaned forward and kissed his jaw, long lashes tickling at his cheek.

He drew back only far enough to whisper against Aziraphale’s skin. “Ever since I opened my door and found you standing there, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.” Crowley dropped his mouth to press a kiss to the sensitive spot between Aziraphale’s jaw and ear, drawing a quiet whimper from him. “All I’ve been able to think is, ‘I’ve never seen such a perfect man.’”

Aziraphale kept his eyes closed as he chewed slowly, savoring the taste and the anticipation. He knew already that the wait had been worth it. He’d made the right decision the night before. Even so, he could feel a heat dusting his cheeks and throat. He didn’t feel worthy of this. He certainly didn’t feel perfect. He could feel the ghost of Gabriel’s finger on his stomach. Could see his pinched expression as it sank into the soft give of Aziraphale’s abdomen. Could still feel the judgement radiating off of him. He had felt belittled. And embarrassed. And that feeling had been amplified by the thought of Crowley retreating back into his flat in shame.

But that wasn’t what happened, was it? He hadn’t changed his mind. He still wanted this. Still wanted _him_. Crowley brought his mouth, hot and open to Aziraphale’s neck, sucking gently. Aziraphale dropped his head onto the back of the couch with a groan, distracted by the sensation.

“I couldn’t keep my hands off myself after I left last night.” Aziraphale’s breath hitched, Gabriel fading further and further from his mind’s eye. Crowley brought his hands to Aziraphale’s chest, running them up and down the soft expanse. “Couldn’t get you out of my head.” He moved to the other side of Aziraphale’s face, breath ghosting over Aziraphale’s lips on the way and kissing the other side of his jaw, his neck. Crowley’s fingers settled on the top button of Aziraphale’s shirt where they trembled, almost imperceptibly. He pulled his mouth away from Aziraphale’s neck, where he’d been pressing soft kisses, to look at his face. Aziraphale gazed back, heavy lidded. “Is this ok?”

Aziraphale’s voice was barely a whisper, “Yes.” Crowley smiled, fingers working quickly on the buttons. When he reached the bottom he yanked the tails up out of Aziraphale’s trousers and pushed the shirt open with a groan.

“God you’re fucking gorgeous.” He skirted his hands through the scattering of soft chest hair and over Aziraphale’s nipples, earning him a muffled gasp, before raking his nails down the soft flesh of his belly and digging them into the swell at either side of his hips.

Aziraphale’s hips twitched. Crowley ground down into him in response and they both sucked in a sharp breath. Crowley grinned and reached back with his hands to grip Aziraphale’s thighs while he curved his spine forward, his body caught in the tension of the opposing desires. He dipped his mouth to suck one nipple between his teeth, squeezing gently before laving his tongue over the tightening nub.

Aziraphale tightened his fingers around Crowley’s hips and pulled him closer, wrenching Crowley’s knees up near his armpits and pressing their steadily swelling cocks against one another.

Crowley hissed at the contact, his thighs squeezing around Aziraphale’s ribcage. “Fffuck.” He tightened his grip on Aziraphale’s thighs, and laughed softly. “These are just… God... I can’t get enough of them. Fucked my own fist last night thinking about getting my hands around your thighs.” Aziraphale groaned and brought a hand up to tangle into Crowley’s hair, pulling their mouths together for the first time. Aziraphale still tasted like caramel and Crowley lapped at the sweetness, plunging his tongue into Aziraphale’s mouth. They took their time exploring each other, tracing the shape of lips and teeth. When at last they pulled apart they were both panting. Crowley’s eyes glinted in a way that made Aziraphale nervous in the best possible way.

“Did you think of me? When I left last night?”

Aziraphale flashed a lopsided grin and slipped his fingers under the hem of Crowley’s t-shirt pushing it slowly up until he could pull it over his head and toss it aside. He ran his hands over the ripple of Crowley’s ribs, making him shiver. He dragged his eyes back up Crowley’s torso and their eyes met. “Yes.”

Crowley’s breath hitched. “Tell me.”

“I didn’t make it two minutes after you left.” Aziraphale leaned forward and kissed one exposed collarbone, grazing his teeth lightly against the skin. “Pulled my prick out right there in the kitchen.” Crowley began to rock on Aziraphale’s lap, rolling his hips down against Aziraphale.

Crowley’s voice was low and gravelly, “What did you think about?”

Aziraphale’s eyes flicked up, no hesitation, “Your mouth. What it would look like stretched around my cock.”

A strangled groan squeaked out of Crowley, “Oh _fuck_.” He pressed himself backwards, slipping off of Aziraphale’s lap and onto his knees in front of the couch. Time floated for a moment as they stared into one another, anticipation vibrating through both of their bodies. Aziraphale reached out, brushing his palm against Crowley’s cheek and the effect reversed, time crashing back into place around them as Crowley fumbled desperately with Aziraphale’s button and fly. He yanked both trousers and pants down Aziraphale’s thighs in one go, his cock catching in the fabric and popping back up, red and leaking, toward his heaving belly.

“Holy shit, Angel.” Crowley was running his hands up and down Aziraphale’s thighs, pupils two deep onyx pools, pulse pounding in his throat. “Perfect. Bloody fucking perfect.” Aziraphale looked down at his own naked body, gazing at his softness with new eyes. Appreciative eyes. Crowley pressed his face to one thick thigh, giving it a gentle nip before licking a stripe up its length until his nose nudged against Aziraphale’s heavy sac. He wrapped his fingers around the base of Aziraphale’s cock as he brought his mouth to Aziraphale’s balls, licking and sucking one gently into his mouth.

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s hips bucked forward as his head tipped onto the back of the couch. His fingers found Crowley’s hair again and he rested his hand there, fingernails scratching softly against his scalp.

Crowley moved his mouth to Aziraphale’s cock, where he dragged his tongue from root to tip before sitting back on his heels and smirking up at Aziraphale, who, with some effort, brought his head back up to gaze at him. Crowley gave him a gentle squeeze before stroking Aziraphale’s length slowly. “You’re fucking huge, Aziraphale.” Aziraphale blushed and darted his eyes away. It wasn’t untrue. Crowley’s fingers didn’t meet where they wrapped around his girth and he was just as impressive in length. “Like… wow.” He licked his lips and leaned forward to lap the bead of precome that had gathered at the tip before wrapping his hot, eager mouth around Aziraphale. 

“ _Oh_.” Aziraphale couldn’t tear his eyes away. Red, spitslick lips stretched tight around him. Those freckled cheeks pinked and hollowed. Lashes fluttering with the effort of swallowing down around him. Aziraphale’s fingers tightened around the muss of locks in his fist and Crowley’s eyes popped open then rolled up and back into his head before fluttering closed again. He groaned long and low around Aziraphale’s cock. Aziraphale’s legs were trembling already. “You… _God…_ you’re good at that.”

Crowley’s head bobbed enthusiastically between his thighs, slowing occasionally to press Aziraphale deeper, tongue working at the underside in hot wet undulating presses. Aziraphale was lost in it. Spiraling. Heart racing. Unaware that he was thrusting gently up into Crowley’s mouth. Unaware that it was driving Crowley insane with want. He could feel a familiar sensation pooling low in his belly, could feel himself drifting slowly toward that deep plunge.

“Wait, wait. I’m… I can’t…”

Crowley pulled off slowly, taking just one last agonizing moment to swirl his tongue around the sensitive head before popping off of Aziraphale’s cock with a wet smack. He continued to stroke Aziraphale lazily, enough stimulation to keep him on edge, but not enough to send him over. “What do you need, Angel?” He leaned down to kiss his thigh again, unable to stay away from them.

Aziraphale wrenched Crowley’s head back by his hair, “You.” He yanked Crowley up and crashed their mouths together. It was wet and messy and gorgeous. Crowley moaned around his tongue. Aziraphale stood, pulling Crowley up with him, and stepped out of his clothes where they had pooled around his ankles. He trailed his hands down Crowley’s sides before slipping them under his thighs and lifting. Crowley yelped at his sudden and unexpected weightlessness then laughed against Aziraphale’s mouth, wrapping his long slender legs around his waist.

In a few long strides Aziraphale was dumping Crowley onto his billowing duvet and crawling over him. His tongue finding Crowley’s belly button, dipping inside briefly before trailing up and tracing the faint outline of his abs. His fingers find Crowley’s waistband while his mouth sucks a bruise onto his ribcage. Crowley writhes gently under his touch, back arching off the mattress. “Please…”

Aziraphale smiles against his skin and pulls Crowley’s joggers over his slim hips. He isn’t wearing anything under them and Aziraphale hums in approval, sitting back to pull them the rest of the way off. Crowley’s long, lean legs are surprisingly muscled and Aziraphale takes a moment to let his fingers wander the curves and clefts between muscle and tendon and bone as Crowley strains beneath him, pressing up, chasing more.

At last his fingers find his heavy leaking prick and close around it, giving it a few firm tugs, twisting his wrist at the apex.

Crowley’s hips buck and he whispers again, “Please…”

“Please what? Tell me.” Aziraphale doesn’t recognize his voice. It is low and raspy and tinged so deeply with desire. “Anything you want. You can have it. Anything.” He knows it is true and it is terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

Crowley whimpers, sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. A flash of teeth. “Fuck me. _Please_.”

Aziraphale drops his head to Crowley’s thigh, breathes in the scent of him and covers that trembling expanse of flesh in greedy open mouth kisses as he settles onto his belly between his legs. He slips a hand under the thigh, pressing it open and up toward Crowley’s chest as he dips his mouth low. Crowley shudders and moans as Aziraphale brings his tongue to his hole, pressing it flat and dragging slowly, painstakingly upward. As soon as his tongue pops off of Crowley’s skin he dives back in and swirls the tip of his tongue around that tight ring before flicking it up, catching the rim. Crowley swears and his hips buck at the sensation. Aziraphale does it again before pressing in, pushing his tongue as deep as he can. He can hear Crowley’s fingernails scrambling to grip the pillow, the sheets, the duvet. Anything. He dips his tongue in again, the ring of muscle clenching around him.

He pulls away too soon leaving Crowley whining, and the sound goes straight to his cock, causing it to twitch and pulse. “I don’t know if I have… It might take me a minute to find a condom.” Crowley is a sight, one arm thrown over his eyes, chest blotchy red. He is gesturing vaguely toward the end of the bed, trying to make words. “What is it darling?”

Crowley groans at the endearment, his cock jumping. Aziraphale smirks and files that away for later. “My pocket.” Aziraphale finds the soft grey joggers discarded by the foot of the bed. He fumbles in the pocket and finds a sheaf of condoms and a small bottle of lube.

“Confident bastard aren’t you.”

Crowley laughs, eyes still covered with one arm. “ _Optimistic_.”

Aziraphale eyes the long string of condoms as they unfurl in his hand. Carbon copy squares separated by perforated lines. “ _Very_ optimistic I see.”

Crowley laughs again, hazarding a peek under his forearm. “Oh my god, shut up and fuck me already or so help me God…”

Aziraphale tears off the top condom and tosses it onto Crowley’s stomach before settling back between his legs with the small white bottle. With a click, he opens the spout and pours a generous dab onto his fingers, watching it run down his knuckles. He presses a fingertip to Crowley and rubs, teasing, in ever tightening circles before pressing in gently. Crowley gasps quietly and bears down, rocking his hips, trying to rush things. Aziraphale tuts and uses his other hand to pin Crowley’s hips, pulling a whine from deep in Crowley’s chest. He takes his time, teasing with just one finger until Crowley is squirming and quietly begging, the sensation no longer enough. Aziraphale presses a soft kiss to the inside of his knee and slips a second finger inside, pumping them in and out slowly. He quirks his fingers to brush against his prostate and Crowley cries out, eyes snapping open.

“ _Fuck_. Yes, again, please.” Aziraphale rubs more forcefully against that bundle of nerves and Crowley’s entire chest curls up for a moment before he collapses back against the pillows again. He works him open on two fingers, teasing, avoiding his prostate until he finally adds a third finger, working it in slowly.

Crowley tenses at the new stretch but quickly relaxes. “Yes,” Aziraphale murmurs against his thigh. “Open up for me. Just like that.” Aziraphale releases his grip on Crowley’s hip and lets him rock on and off his fingers at his own pace.

“I… I’m. I need…” Crowley takes a shuddering breath, stills his hips. “One more finger.” He laughs. “I mean…God… have you seen your dick?”

Aziraphale laughs and withdraws his hand, applying more lube before returning with four fingers and working Crowley open even further. Crowley rocks gently for several minutes before slowing and thrusting the condom toward Aziraphale. “S’good. M”ready.”

Aziraphale withdraws his slick fingers, leaving Crowley wet and open on the bed in front of him. As he rolls the condom down his length, tip pinched between thumb and finger, he nods in Crowley’s direction. “Trade me spots.”

“Hmm?”

“I want you on top. Set the pace.” Crowley gives him a curious smile. “Don’t want to hurt you.”

Crowley pushes himself up and scoots aside, making room for Aziraphale to sprawl back onto the bed, filling the warm space Crowley had been occupying. Crowley takes a minute, enjoying the thick thighs and Aziraphale’s pink cheeks, before straddling his hips and taking him in hand. He rubs a generous coating of lube over Aziraphale before lining himself up and sinking slowly, pausing every few seconds to savor the wide aching stretch.

Aziraphale’s fingers find Crowley’s thighs and squeeze, an attempt at holding himself, a distraction to keep his hips still. Crowley continues his maddeningly slow descent. “ _Fuck_. Crowley. You feel so good. Fuck.” At last Crowley bottoms out, jaw agape, chin dropping toward his chest. His palms spread wide on Aziraphale’s stomach, sinking into the soft warm cushion there.

They stay like that for several moments, breathing together, before Crowley rocks his hips experimentally. They groan in unison and Crowley grinds his hips in circles, teasing them both with the pressure. “Jesus, _fuck_ , Angel.”

Aziraphale slides his hands up Crowley’s thighs and around to grab at his ass, encouraging him to rock forward. Crowley lifts up a few inches before dropping back down making them both gasp. He repeats the action, again and again, slowly, shifting and tilting his pelvis, looking for that angle that will undo him. Aziraphale is acutely aware when he finds it. All of his muscles clench tightly around Aziraphale’s cock and his fingernails dig into his belly. Crowley picks up his pace, bouncing steadily. His head drops back and Aziraphale is overcome with the urge to reach out and touch the line of his throat. To bring his fingertips to the prickles of sweat emerging there. His fingers find Crowley’s Adam’s apple and then wrap toward the nape of his neck, his thumb stretching in the opposite direction. He rests his hand there, not squeezing, not choking, just holding softly.

Crowley chokes back a moan at the touch. “Fff… Fuck me. Please.” Aziraphale thrusts gently, trying to match Crowley’s pace. “Harder. Won’t…ah, won’t break me. Promise.” Aziraphale’s grip finds Crowley’s thighs again as he snaps his hips up, settling into an unrelenting pace. “ _God!_ Yes! Please… _please_.” Aziraphale wraps one hand around Crowley’s cock and pumps him in time with his thrusts. He can feel Crowley’s toes clenching. He can tell that he’s close. His abs flutter and Aziraphale can feel him losing the rhythm.

“Are you going to come for me, darling?” Crowley can only manage a whimper in response as he nods vigorously _yes yes yes_. Aziraphale’s blunt fingernails dig deeper into Crowley’s hips, his own movements becoming shaky and unsteady as he feels a cresting wave surging inside of himself.

Crowley feels it too and it is all it takes to push him the rest of the way into that abyss. He comes in hot sticky stripes over their bellies, shouting Aziraphale’s name. The pulsing clench of Crowley’s orgasm pushes Aziraphale over the edge as well and he’s spinning and falling and out of his mind with the pleasure of it all. He feels Crowley collapse on top of him, two pounding heartbeats reverberating through their bodies, sending pulses and twitches through them like electric shocks. A searing hot panting mouth finds his throat and plasters it in long wet kisses. He finds his hands tangled up in Crowley’s hair. It is damp and soft and Aziraphale is fairly certain he’s never been quite so satisfied in his life.

As their breathing begins to slow Crowley lifts up enough for Aziraphale to slip free before collapsing back down, half on top of Aziraphale and half on the bed, smearing come messily over both of them. He is a sticky sprawled mess of gangly limbs. He mumbles something against Aziraphale’s shoulder that sounds something like “holy shit.” Eventually Crowley’s panting eases, his breathing evens and Aziraphale realizes he’s drifted off to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some heavier themes from here on out, so please heed the tags! I promise not to leave our boys without plenty of love and comfort (and silliness) though.

When Crowley wakes up, the first thing he is aware of is the dull, delicious ache between his legs. He flops onto his back with a smile and stretches in the sunlight like big lanky cat, back arching and fingers spread wide above his head. The bed beside him is empty, but he can still smell Aziraphale all around him. Musky sweat and earthy soap and baking spices. He drags himself upright and to his feet. He slips his joggers back on and looks around for his shirt. The memory of Aziraphale stripping it off and tossing it aside in the living room rushes back to him and his cock twitches in response.

He grins and makes his way to the bedroom door to search for Aziraphale. The flat is warm and smells like cinnamon. A heavy, repetitive beat filters through the space and Crowley quirks an eyebrow at the familiar sound. He peeks into the kitchen and _oh my god_. Aziraphale is bent over in front of the oven, watching the contents closely through the closed door and _oh god_ his hips are bouncing to the music. Not just bouncing though. Aziraphale is full on _twerking_ in front of the oven. _Slow songs they for skinny hos, can’t move all of this here to one of those_ 1. His cheeks bounce seemingly independently of one another before he rolls his hips in undulating circles from one side to the other. _I’m a thick bitch, I need tempo_. _Fuck it up to the tempo_. His knees spread wide as he drops his ass to the floor and pops back up, and then back down again before rolling his body up to almost standing, hips still bouncing as he checks the timer on the countertop.

Crowley is caught halfway between turned on and jealous. He can work his hips, god knows, but he could never get that jiggle just right. In the end horny wins out and he is crossing the kitchen and pressing up behind Aziraphale, fingers finding those lush hips and pulling Aziraphale back, ass to groin.

Aziraphale screeches and whirls, face already cherry red. “Crowley! I thought, I thought you were sleeping!”

Crowley is licking his lips, crowding up against Aziraphale. “A man of hidden talents I see.”

Aziraphale’s blush turns impossibly redder, racing down his throat and disappearing under his collar. “You slept through me _cleaning you up_ , I… I just thought you’d be out for a while.” He rubs a hand through the soft hair at the nape of his neck and cringes at himself.

“Angel… Don’t be embarrassed. That was fucking hot.” He presses himself against Aziraphale, legs staggered so he is nearly straddling one of Aziraphale’s thighs, and wraps his arms around his waist, rocking his hips gently to the music. Aziraphale remains stock still for a moment before finally snorting out a laugh at himself and wrapping his arms tentatively around Crowley’s shoulders, swaying in Crowley’s arms. He rolls his hips against Crowley’s experimentally and Crowley can’t help but to deepen the contact until they are grinding against one another and giggling like randy high schoolers. _Boyfriend watchin’, oh now he wanna knuckle up_. Crowley lets his hands slip lower and squeeze, pulling a small grunt from Aziraphale.

A timer screams from the countertop startling them out of the lust filled haze they were drowning in. “Oh! My snickerdoodles.” Aziraphale turns and pulls the tray from the oven while Crowley sprawls back against the kitchen island, reaching down to nonchalantly tuck his erection up into his waistband. 

“So… Lizzo? Would have pegged you as more of a classical guy.”

Aziraphale chuckles. “I like her body positivity. It’s… nice.” He sneaks a peek back over his shoulder. “Makes me feel sexy.” Crowley licks his lips and raises a brow in agreement.

They are interrupted by a buzz coming from Crowley’s joggers and he pulls a phone out of his pocket. “Ah, my counter guys.” He answers. “This is Crowley… Yes… Shit, Now?... Sure. Yeah… No, no problem. I’ll be right down.” He slips the phone back into his pocket. “Counter installation. Sorry, Angel, I gotta run. Dinner later? I’ll cook for you!”

“Yeah, sure, just let me know when.” Crowley reaches out to pull Aziraphale flush to his body and kisses him.

“I’ll text you.” Aziraphale smiles and sneaks one more kiss before Crowley is shuffling through the flat and out the door, stopping only to snag his t-shirt and tug it back on over his head as he slips through the door.

For Aziraphale the afternoon is spent in a happy daze. He is so distracted replaying the morning over and over again that he almost burns the brioche and nearly starts a grease fire making sufganiyot. And why is he making sufganiyot anyway? It is only May. He quickly gives up the illusion that he’ll be safely productive in the kitchen and spends the rest of the day at his laptop writing up post after post for all of the things he’d baked _with Crowley_. The familiar noise of the remodel starts back up below his feet but now instead of irritation it inspires a ( _mildly_ _confusing_ ) burst of lust.

His mobile vibrates across the kitchen island. It is a text.

Crowley: c _ounters in. working on cabinets. dinner at 8?_

Aziraphale _: Can’t wait_

Crowley _: pick up some wine?_

Aziraphale _: Of course._

_-_

Aziraphale closes his laptop and glances at his watch. He’ll need to pop around the corner for wine now if he wants to get to Crowley’s on time. He’s locking the flat behind him when the door at the bottom of the stairs opens. A young man exits. Dark hair, five o’clock shadow, chiseled jaw, narrow waist. He is opposite Aziraphale in nearly every way. He turns to the open doorway. Crowley’s voice comes from inside, “See you next week?”

The man smiles, dimples and twinkling eyes on full display. “Yeah, that works for me. Looking forward to it.”

“Yeah, yeah me too, Javi.” The man nods and turns down the stairs toward the front door. Aziraphale is frozen, praying that Crowley doesn’t lean out, look up the stairs. He doesn’t want Crowley to think he’s lurking. _Was he lurking?_ He might be lurking. The door clicks shut and Aziraphale breathes a sigh of relief, only to be immediately gripped with anxiety again. Those handsome young men in and out of Crowley’s flat. How could this possibly be occurring to him only now? Was he just a notch on a headboard? Was this just a relationship of convenience (and proximity)?

Aziraphale grimaces at himself. They’d never discussed this being anything more than just casual. They were having a good time, they’d only met a few days ago. He couldn’t expect Crowley to drop all of his lovers immediately just for Aziraphale. Right? His inner monologue wasn’t working. He knew he wanted more. He knew the feelings blooming in his chest. They just _fit_. But, he didn’t want to scare Crowley off by rushing things. He could do casual. This could work. ( _right?_ ) He chewed at his lip as he hurried down the stairs and out the door.

-

Crowley’s hair is still wet when he answers the door. His feet are bare. He has on slim jeans and a black t shirt whose sleeves hug his biceps just a tad too snuggly. When he reaches up and runs a hand through the mop of hair fallen on his forehead the hem creeps up. His jeans are slung low enough across his hips that Aziraphale can see a wiry thatch of russet hair peeking out. “Good _lord_.”

Crowley smirks and takes the bottle of wine in Aziraphale’s outstretched hand, looks Aziraphale up and down, at his plain white button down, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and sensible grey trousers ( _that Aziraphale knows squeeze his hips just a tad_ _more than usual_ ), “Not so bad yourself.” He leans in and gives Aziraphale a quick kiss on the cheek before ushering him in and gesturing proudly toward the kitchen. The counters are a deep grey soapstone and when Aziraphale runs his hands over the surface it is surprisingly warm and soft.

“Oh Crowley, these are beautiful!” He is overcome with an image of baking in this kitchen, sharing the space. Sharing a life. His heart clenches and he tries his best to ignore it. _Casual, casual, casual._ He repeats the mantra.

Crowley gestures up at the wall, “Uppers are in too. Even managed to get most of the kitchen unpacked. Just backsplash to go and it will finally, _finally_ be done.”

Aziraphale turns away, pretends to inspect the new cabinets. “That’s wonderful Crowley.”

“I hope gnocchi is ok, I didn’t have time to run to the shops and it is all I could throw together that was anywhere even resembling impressive.”

“That sounds lovely.” Crowley pops the bottle of wine and gets to work, pulling ingredients together and boiling water. While he cooks he rants, although for once Aziraphale is having a hard time following. He keeps picturing Mr. Tall-dark-and-handsome. He imagines those olive hands on the ivory skin of Crowley’s waist and winces.

“Angel? Everything ok?”

Aziraphale forces a smile. “Fine, fine. Do go on.”

Crowley squints, brows furrowing for a split second. “You’re not getting sick again, are you?” He walks around the island and presses a palm to Aziraphale’s forehead.

Aziraphale leans away. “Really, I’m fine.”

Crowley hums. He doesn’t look convinced, but he returns to his rant. Something about granite. Aziraphale drifts again. At dinner he pushes the fat little dumplings around his plate. Eventually Crowley reaches out and takes his hand. “Angel, did I… Did I do something? This morning?”

Aziraphale startles at the touch “No, no! Really, it’s nothing.”

Crowley sighs. “Aziraphale.” He takes a breath. “I wish you’d be honest with me. I can’t fix something if I don’t know what I’ve done.”

Now, Aziraphale startles at the words. “Oh, no, really. You haven’t done anything wrong. I just…” Crowley give his hand an encouraging squeeze. Aziraphale deflates with a quiet groan. “This is embarrassing. I know we’ve only… What I mean is, everything is so new. And I don’t mean to pressure you. But. I guess I just want to know what this is.” Crowley opens his mouth to speak, but Aziraphale continues. “I saw that handsome young man leaving earlier, and I remembered all the handsome young men I’ve seen at your door over the past few weeks and I… I just don’t…” He takes a shaky breath. “I know I can’t compete with that.”

“Oh, Angel.”

“I just... I like you Crowley.”

“Aziraphale...”

“Like. I _really_ like you. And I know we’ve only known each other for a couple of days.”

“Angel, listen to me.”

“And I was totally dead to the world for one of them! But I’m afraid I’m quite taken with you and I don’t think I can handle…”

“ _Aziraphale!_ ” Aziraphale finally snaps to attention. Crowley’s face softens. His other hand joins the first and rubs circles into the back of Aziraphale’s hand. When he speaks again, it is quiet. “Aziraphale, I’m crazy about you.”

“Crowley…”

“Let me finish. The boys. It isn’t what it looks like. First of all, today, that was just Javi He’s my handyman. Straight as an arrow, trust me. He was helping with the cabinets. Second, I prefer men my own age, thank you very much. And third, Aziraphale, you can _more_ than compete. I’ve… I’ve never met anyone like you.” Aziraphale smiles sheepishly.

Crowley takes a steadying breath. “So the boys. Ok. So I told you about my father. About how we don’t really talk?” Aziraphale isn’t sure where this is going, but nods his acknowledgement. “Well when I was 17 he walked in on me and this kid from down the street and he kicked me out. Right then and there. I had the clothes on my back and that was it. So when I say we aren’t really close, I mean I haven’t seen him or spoken to him since that day.”

Aziraphale’s forehead crinkles, “That’s terrible.”

Crowley chuckles, “Well hold onto your hat, because it gets worse. I couch surfed with friends for a while. Spent a couple nights in the local park. Didn’t take long before I realized I could cruise for a warm bed, sneak some food out of the fridge while I was creeping out the next morning. Took even less time before someone mistook my, ah, intentions, and left a fifty on the nightstand while he took a shower.” He sniffs, holds on tighter to Aziraphale’s hands. “And so I went with it. I’m not proud of it, but I did. Prowled the pubs and the parks and public toilets to make a buck.” He turns his eyes toward the floor as he speaks.

“One night, I meet a guy. Handsome older guy. Luc was his name. Takes me to a fancy hotel, buys dinner, the whole works. At the end of the night I’m waiting for the cash and he laughs. Says I owe _him_ since I’ve been undercutting his business. Blowing _his_ Johns.”

“Crowley, you don’t have to…”

“No. I do. You need to know. This.. this is me. You should know before you decide. Before we can decide what this,” He gestures between them “is. Aziraphale, I don’t want to hurt you. And if you don’t want me…” He trails off. Aziraphale squeezes his hand. A breath. An exhalation. “So he says I can work off my debt. He’ll take 60% off the top of whatever I can make and he’ll look out for me. Send guys my way. Says I can take the deal or pay the consequences.” Crowley squeezes his eyes shut before continuing. “Six months later he sends me to some guy in a luxury suite in Chelsea. Guy offers me a bump and I figure, why the hell not. Wouldn’t be the first time.

Well, guess it was cut with something, ‘cause the next thing I know I’m waking up with a cracked skull and…” his voice wavers, just around the edges, before he steadies his breathing and continues. “…I can only figure, I must have passed out, hit my head on something on the way down or something. He didn’t care. Or maybe that was the idea the whole time. I don’t know. But he… he took what he wanted.

And I’d been careful. _So_ fucking careful. Never without a johnny. _Never_. I was stupid, but I wasn’t _that_ stupid.”

Aziraphale’s heart races, face pained, tears prick the corners of his eyes. “Oh god…”

“So I wake up and I don’t know what to do. So I call Luc, I mean, he promised to take care of me, right? But he doesn’t give a single fuck.” A bitter laugh and he continues. “Of course he doesn’t. Wants to know if the guy paid. Only cares about his fucking payday.” He sucks in a breath. “So I spend the next three months in limbo. And Luc is… I’m still working, right? Because what else am I supposed to do? But I’m just waiting and testing and waiting. And I was absolutely alone in it. Terrified. ” Aziraphale reaches out to brush a tear from Crowley’s cheek.

“But I guess when I went to the clinic that first time, I guess I was still a mess. Hadn’t gotten all the blood scrubbed out of my hair.” He reaches up absently and rubs at the serpent tattoo at his temple and for the first time Aziraphale notices it doesn’t sit flat. It is inked on top of a scar. “This absolute saint of a nurse, she noticed. And, god I didn’t even know you had to wait. For a test. Your body doesn’t make antibodies right away, right? Can take up to three months. But she ran the full panel, for whatever she could. And before she sent me away, she patched me up and told me if I… if I wanted help. If I needed help, to get in touch. That she had connections.

I kept her phone number in my pocket for those three months. And as soon as I got the results, negative by the way, thank Christ, I called her. And she got me out. She got me out and helped me realize that I’m worth something. And now… now I get people out. And so those boys come by for a shower and some food and I set them up with a safe place to stay. Help them find a job.”

“Crowley, I... I don’t…”

“You don’t have to say anything. If you… if you don’t want this anymore. I understand.”

“Crowley I’m… I’m so sorry.”

Crowley shakes his head, “It’s fine, don’t be sorry. You aren’t the first to go. Better now before…” Aziraphale interrupts by standing abruptly and dragging Crowley into his arms, wrapping him up as tightly as he can, face buried in the fiery wisps and curls at his crown.

“I’m not going anywhere.” It takes a moment before Crowley’s body responds. It happens in increments. An exhalation. Tentative hands creeping and then fisting into the fabric of Aziraphale’s shirt at his back. Quiet tears wetting Aziraphale’s chest. Gently shuddering shoulders. Aziraphale doesn’t let go. He’ll hold on as long as Crowley needs. As long as it takes to convince him.

They stay like that, Aziraphale rubbing soothing circles into Crowley’s back with one hand, cupping the back of his head with the other until Crowley’s breathing evens, his shoulders still, and at last he pulls away. “I’m sorry, this isn’t how tonight was supposed to go.”

Aziraphale shushes him, kisses his forehead. “ _I’m_ sorry Crowley. I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t’ve made assumptions. And I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that. You don’t owe me anything. And what you are doing is so kind. Noble.”

“Look. I don’t… I’m not interested in other guys. But I’m not sure how to be in a relationship. V’never done it before.”

Aziraphale’s face flashes with disappointment and though he tries to hide it, he knows he is wearing his heart on his sleeve.

Crowley’s hands find Aziraphale’s and he tangles their fingers up together. “But Angel, I _want_ to. I want to learn. I just… I just need you to be patient with me.”

A weight releases and Aziraphale is floating. “Oh my darling, I can do that.” He beams down at Crowley. “I can certainly do that.”

-

If you were to ask them, later, how they ended up in Crowley’s bed, neither Aziraphale nor Crowley would be able to answer with any measure of certainty. In one instance they were drifting, happily, together, lost in the moment and the next they were solidly grounded, grasping at each other as if they were certain the other would change their mind in the next and float away for good. Aziraphale’s fingers were all tangled up in Crowley’s hair and Crowley was growling angrily at the belt buckle his fingers couldn’t quite work open.

“Fuck, is this a fucking chastity belt, or what?” His progress is hampered as Aziraphale drags his mouth back onto his own, sucking the breath out of him. There was nothing elegant about it. It was wet and involved too many teeth. Too much panting breath pushing them apart only for desire to crash them back together again. The belt finally gives up the ghost and Aziraphale sucks Crowley’s lip between his teeth, biting down harder than he intended as Crowley’s fingers brush his erection.

Crowley gasps at the flash of pain and Aziraphale winces, “Sorry! Sorry.”

“Nono. S’good. You could… you can be rough. With me.”

“Is that…” (Crowley automatically fills in the gap: _safe? healthy? appropriate?)_ “what you want?” _oh._

Crowley sucks his lip into his mouth. Runs his tongue over that spot. He can taste the heat there. “Yes.” Crowley knows. He knows the questions left unasked. _After everything, don’t you want kindness? Don’t you want love? Are you punishing yourself? Are you broken?_ He answers them, although he doesn’t think Aziraphale would ask. “I like… I like that it’s my choice. Not someone else’s. I like it with someone that I trust.”

Aziraphale skims his hands over Crowley’s ribcage. “Do you want me to be rough with you with…with words too?”

Crowley shakes his head. “No. Just physically.”

“Would you like me to be _kind_ with my words?”

Crowley shivers a little. No one has ever asked him that before. His voice is a whisper. “Y..yes”

“And if I… misstep? If I do something you don’t want? You’ll tell me.” It isn’t a question.

“Yes.”

Aziraphale runs his fingers through Crowley’s hair, gently at first, before grasping a handful and flipping them over, splaying Crowley out on the bed beneath him, head wrenched back to expose his throat. “Beautiful.” He murmurs, “Absolutely beautiful.” Crowley isn’t expecting the effect that dialectic would have on him. Pain mixing with pleasure, he is used to that. Pain mixing with praise, _that_ is new. And it curls up tight in his belly, but threatens to unfurl. To undo him before they’ve even gotten started.

Aziraphale’s mouth finds his pulse point and bites down hard before sucking a bruise there. Crowley arches up off the bed and his hands land behind him on the headboard. The headboard they built together. He had hoped, then, that maybe they would end up here. But he wasn’t prepared for this. For how perfect it would feel. For how _much_ it would feel.

His mouth slides down Crowley’s body, licking and biting and sucking his way down his chest, taking time to nip and squeeze at each nipple, pulling twin groans from Crowley. Crowley knows that he’s going to be covered in bruises tomorrow. That Anathema is going to give him shit about it. He couldn’t care less. Finds it thrilling, actually. To know he’ll be marked up and exposed.

Crowley reaches for Aziraphale’s belt again but Aziraphale grabs his wrists tightly and sinks them into the mattress. “I’m going to take care of you. And I want you to lay back and take it.” He presses a kiss to one hip bone, nips teasingly. “You deserve to feel good.” Aziraphale pulls his trousers down slowly and nips again, this time at the crease between his thigh and torso. “You deserve to be spoiled. A pretty thing like you.”

Crowley’s cock twitches next to Aziraphale’s face. There is a flurry of movement as Aziraphale yanks Crowley’s trousers off the rest of the way and flips him onto his stomach. Fingers grip Crowley’s hips and he can feel ten perfect crescents dig deeply into his flesh before his hips are yanked up. Teeth sink into one cheek and Crowley presses back into the sensation with a groan. Aziraphale’s mouth climbs higher and he kisses the shadowed dimples on Crowley’s lower back.

Those soft, manicured hands squeeze tighter and spread Crowley wide open. He can hear Aziraphale moan at the sight, and even though he uses no words, it feels like praise. It sends a charge up his spine. He feels a hot breath on his hole before the tickle of a tongue, teasing, flicking, then finally sinking inside. Crowley’s thighs are already trembling, his orgasm already building as Aziraphale fucks him relentlessly with his tongue.

“Aziraphale, wait, I’m gonna…”

Aziraphale pulls back, replaces his tongue with his thumb, dipping it inside, “No. You’re not. You’ll be good for me, right?”

Crowley curses into the pillow before nodding against it.

“I want you to say it, darling.”

“Yes,” Crowley squeaks. “I’ll be so good for you.”

Aziraphale replaces his thumb with two fingers, seemingly miraculously slicked. _Where did he find lube?_ He doesn’t have time to follow that train of thought as those slick fingers find his prostate and massage gently. Crowley is vaguely aware that he is panting and mumbling and rocking his hips back onto Aziraphale’s hand. He hears a chuckle, not unkind, from behind him. “God, you’re so fucking hot. Milking my fingers like that. Do you want another?”

“Yes, yes, _fuck_ , yes.”

Aziraphale opens him up on his fingers just like the last time, moving from three fingers to four and leaving him wet and loose and begging. At last, _finally_ , he sheds the rest of his clothes and pulls on a condom. Lines himself up and slides in, slowly, but in one motion, all the way to the hilt. Aziraphale drapes himself over Crowley and wraps one hand under his throat, tilting his head back to crash a sloppy kiss onto the side of his mouth. His breath is hot and damp against his cheek as he begins moving “You feel so good. So tight.” His fingers press bruises into Crowley’s hips as he thrusts.

“Will you…will you spank me?” Aziraphale kisses his jaw once more before hauling himself back up and bringing one hand down, cautiously at first. Crowley whimpers, “Harder.” Aziraphale complies, bringing his hand down with a sharp crack. The sweet burst of pain races through Crowley’s body and he cries out. “Again, harder.” He pushes back against Aziraphale’s thrusts, their bodies slapping loudly against one another.

“Anything for you, darling. Anything.” Aziraphale’s palm comes down again, and again for good measure, leaving bright pink handprints in its wake.

“Fuck, Angel, please, I’m gonna. I need to… please, _please_.” Aziraphale reaches a hand around Crowley’s hips and takes his neglected aching cock into his hand stroking him roughly. His other hand pinches at the outside of his thigh.

Crowley shudders apart under Aziraphale’s touch, his orgasm ripped out of him in a single burst of pleasure. Aziraphale holds him in place and thrusts two, three, four more times before he’s following. They collapse together in a sweaty heap, blissed out and aching.

Eventually they stir. Bedding is stripped and piled on the floor. A condom is tied off and discarded. They stumble into the shower together. It is too soon. They are oversensitive. They couldn’t get hard again if they wanted to. Regardless they kiss under the steaming spray of the dual heads. Their hands explore. Aziraphale gently cleans Crowley’s body, running his soapy fingers over every bruise and bite mark. He runs his hand down Crowley’s spine and gently between his cheeks. Crowley gasps at the touch, his cock twitching in interest, but ultimately unwilling to perform.

Crowley washes Aziraphale’s hair, spending an inordinate amount of time massaging his scalp. Aziraphale is reduced to mush under the ministrations of his fingers and they laugh as his knees shake and threaten to give. The hot water turns warm and they collapse back onto the bed, still wet. Crowley shivers as a cool spring breeze drifts through the open window and Aziraphale wraps him up with his body and pulls the duvet up to their chins. Crowley snuggles into Aziraphale’s chest, wraps a long arm around his waist.

This is right.

This is good.

This is… not entirely honest.

“I have something else I need to tell you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   1. [Tempo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=raVe1hZxFAc>) [ ▲ ]
> Next chapter will go up later this week. Don't worry, I would never leave you hanging long.  
>  Thank you for all of the kind comments, I've really enjoyed hearing from those of you that are enjoying this little fic!



	6. Chapter 6

**_Before_ **

Shame was a living, breathing thing and it lived curled tightly against Crowley’s ribcage. It burst into life as his father dragged him by his collar and dumped him on his ass in the street in just his sock feet. It sprouted limbs as he cried and begged and pounded on the door of the only home he’d ever known. It grew teeth the first time a friend hinted he’d overstayed his welcome and he felt those angry hands dragging him from his room all over again. It purred and stretched out inside his chest and grew every time he swallowed down a stranger in a dirty toilet. And Crowley was learning to live with it. He accommodated it and then, without knowing, he cradled it and held it and let it consume him.

And then shame was joined by her sister, fear. Fear spilled across his guts and dug its claws in from the moment he woke up alone with a throbbing head and a stranger’s spend dripping down his thigh. It spit acid from its mouth and chewed ulcers into his belly and every time another john closed the door to the seedy pay-by-the-week hotel room he existed in ( _because it wasn’t living, not really_ ), fear and shame would tangle together and grow and push out all the space for oxygen. And he’d vomit and brush his teeth until his gums bled and sit in the shower until the water ran cold. And he’d promise himself _never again_ and then, a day or two days or a week later his stomach would grumble and cramp and rent would come due and he would do it again.

For three months and two weeks fear and shame feasted and grew and grew until there was almost no room inside himself for anything else. _Almost_. Somewhere, buried deep in that tangle of teeth and claws and acid was a tiny seed called courage, and when the phone rang and the screen told him that it was the clinic, courage sent out a single root and with fear snapping at his throat he reached out a trembling hand and he answered. And courage sprouted, delicate and fragile and quivering but resilient. And he reached into his pocket and drew out a wrinkled, age softened scrap of paper with eight numbers. Eight numbers he had carried with him for three months and two weeks. Shame thrashed and screamed and threw itself against his ribcage and fear spread out and out and out and filled him to the brim and leaked out through his pores and his eyes and his nose. And in the face of it all that tiny seedling persevered.

“Hi, Tracy? You probably don’t remember me…”

-

Tracy did remember him. Tracy would remember the face and name of every boy and girl and man and woman and everything in between and beyond that she tried to save. She would carry every one of them with her, sometimes with joy and sometimes with a deep and unyielding sadness. Crowley thought Tracy was a saint. Tracy would laugh and claim she was the furthest thing from it; she just knew that everyone deserved a second chance. And how could she live with herself if she didn’t at least try to give it to them?

Tracy sheltered Crowley and kept his belly full and took him to group where he learned to cope with fear and shame. He learned how to breathe to keep them contained. He learned for the first time in three and a half years how to feel safe. Over cups of tea and terrible tarot readings and old black and white films Tracy planted new seeds and nurtured them and although they grew slowly, she was never impatient.

Tracy introduced Crowley to Anathema Device. She was the epitome of quiet confidence. An unstoppable forward momentum. She was small but strong and she was the sole proprietor of _Eden_ , an exclusive burlesque club in Soho. Anathema gave Crowley a job as a bar-back and the first time he cashed a real paycheck the distance between fear and shame grew an inch. It could be hard and unforgiving work, but it was satisfying all the same. It occupied his mind, all that flitting from one task to the next. Restock napkins here. Wash these glasses. Slice limes. Change out the keg. Mix this drink. Unclog the mop sink. Oh, and then mop up while you’re there. Anathema took no pity on him and pushed for perfection from the moment he walked through the door. And when he wasn’t perfect, because no one is perfect, she was stern, but forgiving, and it was the first time he could remember being forgiven and the distance between fear and shame grew another inch.

Crowley would collapse onto the bed in Tracy’s guest room in the early morning, feet screaming and shoulders aching from lugging kegs and crates of wine and buckets of ice and it was the most content he had been since he was seventeen. Over the next several months the aches would subside. His long arms and legs filled out with whipcord muscle. The dark shadows under his eyes faded and he stood up straighter.

People started to notice him. An offer from a performer that he would politely decline. A look from a bartender that he might return. A wink from a patron as he bustled through the club, always moving. The first time he kissed someone and money didn’t exchange hands, the distance between fear and shame grew another inch. And then another when Crowley signed his first lease with a little help from Tracy.

Crowley began to take up space. To stop saying sorry for every little thing. He learned how to fake confidence and eventually how to _be_ confident. He learned that fear and shame would always live inside him, but they didn’t need to consume him. He could sit with fear and shame, while they snarled and snapped and tried to grow together again, knowing that eventually it would pass.

-

It was early morning and the house lights were up. The bartender and the last of the performers had shuffled out into the bitter winter cold a half an hour ago. Crowley dunked the mop and returned it to the floor with a slap, sending suds out in a wide arc. The stage was the last thing that needed cleaned and then he could trudge home through the snow and curl up in _his_ warm bed until he needed to come back and do it all over again. He swayed slowly backward as he mopped, from the front of the stage toward the wings, lost in thought. His heel bumped something behind him.

A short platform with a chrome pole. He’d seen many performances by now. Had admired the women that used it; their strength and poise. He glanced around the club. Empty. He stepped up on the platform tentatively, eyes scanning the club again. He gripped the pole and twisted it experimentally, sending it spinning slowly on hidden ball bearings. Another glance around the room. Still empty. He gripped higher, hooked a leg around the pole and pushed off. ( _Later, down the line, he’d learn this was called an inside hook.)_ And _oh_ he liked that. He smiled. Did it again. Felt weightless. He conjured up some of the performances he’d seen, tried to remember how they moved their bodies. He sauntered around the pole, gaining momentum, and lifted his body up, pole squeezed firmly between his knees as he rotated around the pole, one leg crossed over the other. He laughed, did it again, but with one leg extended.

“You’re a real natural at that, you know.”

Crowley’s grip slipped and he crashed to the floor with a heavy thud. Anathema scurried up on the stage, concerned but unable to hold back her giggles. “Oh my god, are you ok?!”

Crowley groaned and rolled over. “You scared the _fuck_ out of me!” Anathema cackled. “I didn’t even know you were still here.”

“Come on, up with you now. I’ve seen the girls take harder tumbles with far more grace.” She helped haul Crowley to his feet.

Crowley winced, rubbed at his hip, “The girls have a bit more cushion than I do.”

Anathema laughed again. Crowley loved her laugh. That she was so open and loud and unapologetic. “I meant what I said, by the way. You’re a natural.” Crowley snorted. “Really! And you’ve got a body to die for.” Crowley went for dismissive, but he could feel the heat in his cheeks. “We could always use male talent.”

“Anathema. I spun around a pole once. And then fell off it.”

She shrugged. “We all start somewhere.” She handed him the mop that he’d cast aside. “When you get tired of mopping and stocking cherries, come talk to me.”

-

_“I have something else I need to tell you.”_

_Aziraphale pulls him closer and shushes him. “Tell me in the morning, darling.”_

-

It only took a week of staring at that pole during every shift before Crowley worked up the courage ( _now a sturdy little sapling_ ) to knock on Anathema’s office door.

“I knew you’d change your mind.”

“I haven’t even said anything!”

Anathema rolls her eyes, “Ok fine. Hi Crowley, what’s up?”

Crowley scrunches his face. Jams his hands into his pockets. “Ok fine, I changed my mind.”

A smirk. “I know. Saw it in my tea leaves this morning.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I did!” Anathema gestures to the chair across from her and Crowley collapses into it.

“So how would this even work?”

“Well obviously you’ll need lessons. I can get the girls to help out too. Bar-back three nights a week and lessons the other three. You can practice any time during the day, you’ve got keys.”

His face drops. “No way. I can’t take that kind of pay cut. I’ll never be able to pay rent, let alone eat.”

Anathema waves his words away. “I’ll pay you for lessons. Consider it an investment. Expanding our offerings.”

Crowley narrows his eyes. “Did Tracy put you up to this?”

“What? No! No. Seriously. I do this for all my crew. It’s why _Eden_ works. Happy talent, _good_ talent brings people in. Keeps them coming back. You think they aren’t getting paid for rehearsal? Ask around if you don’t believe me. I take care of my lot.”

He turns the idea over in his head, chews at the inside of his cheek.

“Performers get a cut of the cover, you know. People would want to see you. You’d draw crowds and you know it.”

Does he know it? Not really. Not yet. Soon, but not yet. Courage, with its thin trunk and spindly branches, bends but doesn’t break. He puffs out his cheeks as he exhales. “Ok. Let’s do this.”

-

Even the basic moves leave Crowley’s legs and arms covered in bruises. His body isn’t used to the shapes he is learning to make and finds new ways to ache. Anathema makes him take up yoga. Says his natural flexibility will only get him so far. He needs to learn about strength and balance and control. He grumbles outwardly but secretly finds peace in the movements. Admiration in the things he didn’t realize his body was capable of.

He falls. And he falls and falls and falls and he gets good at getting back up. Eventually he gets good at falling too, so it doesn’t hurt so much, he isn’t so scared.

Anathema shows up one day with a pair of sky high stilettos and straps them onto his feet with a grin. He wobbles and lurches in them, but wears them all day when he’s at home, cooking and cleaning and watching shitty TV. Learning to walk and then to strut.

His first performance is on a Tuesday night. _Eden_ is nearly empty and still his hands shake. His palms are sweaty and he frowns at them. _It is just one song_ , he tells himself. One song. Three minutes and it will be done. He glances down at his body. A tiny pair of black spandex shorts are all that cover him and he feels suddenly exposed. He’s been practicing with the girls in shorts and a vest. The rest of the crew has only ever seen him in jeans and tee. He stumbles on his heels and he can feel that familiar bile creeping up in his throat. Fear is waking up, stretching out, taking up space. _Breathe in. Hold it. Breathe out. Pause. Breathe in. Hold it. Breathe out._

When he opens his eyes Anathema is standing in front of him. “Sometimes we need a mask to be who we are.” She reaches up and fusses with his hair, pinning something into place. She unfurls a stiff dark veil that covers him from crown to chin. With a hand on either cheek she pulls his face down and kisses him on the forehead through the smoky mesh. “Be brave.”

When he walks off the stage three minutes later, courage has a sister named pride and though she is small she strains upward.

Over the next three years Crowley moves from Tuesdays to Thursdays to Fridays. A year later he headlines Fridays and Saturdays and starts an Instagram account. Then a YouTube channel. The ad revenue is enough to pay the bills and the pay from the club builds up in his bank account. Two years after that Anathema convinces him to buy a share of the business. To become a partner. The next year Crowley buys a flat with floor to ceiling windows and space to grow and he meets an angel in tartan boxers. And four days later, when he wakes up in the morning, he can feel fear and shame rearing their heads and he sits with them and is determined not to let them rule him. _Breathe in. Hold it. Breathe out. Pause. Breathe in. Hold it. Breathe out._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, folks!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter goes up Thursday and we'll finish out next week (eek!)

_“I have something else I need to tell you.”_

_Aziraphale pulls him closer and shushes him. “Tell me in the morning, darling.”_

Aziraphale can’t remember the last time he woke up in someone’s arms. Crowley is pressed up against his back, breath stirring the hair at his temple, arm draped across his waist and snaking up over his chest. He finds Crowley’s hand and brings it to his lips to kiss his knuckles and then his wrist. Crowley stirs behind him, mumbling and squeezing Aziraphale closer.

He rolls over in Crowley’s arms and kisses him softly. Crowley smiles and opens his eyes, blinking away the sleep.

Aziraphale runs his thumb over the fading edges of Crowley’s black eye. Now a faint brown and green smudge. His brows furrow for a moment then soften. “Mornin’ Angel.”

“Good morning.” The sky is grey and rain taps quietly against the window pane. They sit in comfortable silence, searching each other’s faces, learning the lines and freckles and crow’s feet and how they look on a rainy Friday morning. Aziraphale knows on a normal day he’d already be in the kitchen, but he can’t be bothered. If he could, he’d stay right here all day. Content to memorize every inch of Crowley’s body. His fingers twitch, inching toward Crowley’s hips, where they fit just right. He could dip under the duvet right now, take Crowley into his mouth. Watch him fall apart. Put him back together again.

Before he can, Crowley drags himself upright with a groan. A quick kiss to his hair and Crowley slips out of the bed. He’s still naked from the night before and Aziraphale relishes the view as Crowley slips into that familiar black silk robe and disappears out the door.

Aziraphale joins him in the kitchen and finds a steaming mug of tea waiting for him on the counter. Next to the mug is a matchbook. Black with white script. _Eden_. He picks it up and it falls open in his fingers and on the inside is a handwritten address.

Crowley clears his throat, takes a sip of coffee. “Last night I said I wanted to tell you something. But I think it would be best for me to show you.”

Aziraphale quirks a brow, turns the matchbook in his hand.

“Come to that address tonight. Ten o’clock.”

Aziraphale smiles softly, “Anything for you, darling. Anything.” He clasps the matchbook in his hand and slips it into his breast pocket.

The morning passes easily. They sip coffee and tea and eventually migrate upstairs to Aziraphale’s flat for lunch. Crowley pulls Aziraphale close and runs a hand through his hair and kisses him and Aziraphale’s heart thuds in his chest like it is the first time again. They kiss longer than they mean but eventually Aziraphale pulls away and Crowley drifts toward the door. He gazes over his shoulder as he opens it.

“Ten o’clock tonight. Promise you’ll be there?”

“Promise.” The door clicks shut and Crowley is gone.

-

Crowley can’t remember the last time he feared going on stage. The first time, sure. But after that? He was often nervous, or excited and burbling over with energy, but never afraid. Tonight was different. His stomach was churning. No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t keep his knee from bouncing. _Breathe in. Hold it. Breathe out. Pause. Breathe in. Hold it. Breathe out._

“What’s got you so worked up?” That familiar voice soothes Crowley even when it doesn’t mean to.

“I… I met someone.”

Anathema plops down onto the vanity in front of Crowley, eyes wide. “Dish! Now!”

Crowley groans and drops his face into his hands. His voice comes out muffled by his fingers. “He’s gorgeous and perfect and sweet and he’s coming here tonight.”

“Here? He’s coming here? Anthony J. Crowley, you’ve never brought someone here. Ever. How long have you been keeping this guy a secret?”

Crowley looks up between his fingers. “Four days?”

“Four days? Four days?! What the actual fuck, Crowley? What. I… I can’t even. What?!”

He groans again. “I know. I know. I don’t know. He just… it feels right?”

“Crowley. This is huge. Massive.”

His legs shake. “What if he leaves, Anathema? What if this scares him off?”

She pries his hands from his face and tilts his chin up so that they are eye to eye. “Then he isn’t _right_.”

Crowley nods. She’s right and he knows it. He takes a deep breath and prepares to fall, just in case. It won’t hurt so much that way.

-

The stage lights come up slowly, illuminating him from behind. He is a silhouette against the bright white light and in that brief moment while the audience is illuminated he searches for that familiar face, heart pounding.

There. That gorgeous mess of curls. Aziraphale sits tucked away in a small round booth by himself, a cocktail clutched tightly in his fingers. Two wide eyes are the last thing Crowley sees as the beat hits and the light shifts, shrouding the audience in darkness.

**-**

Aziraphale takes a seat in a small velvet booth near the back of the club and looks around. _Eden_ is a small, intimate space decked out in rich burgundy and black and gold. The gilded art deco bar stretches out along the back wall and bartenders sling sidecars and old fashioneds wearing suspenders and bowties. The stage juts out into the club with plush semi-circle booths staggered around three sides. Aziraphale eyes it nervously. The lights in the room dim until the space is illuminated only by the faint glow from the bar behind him. The crowd quiets as a silky disembodied voice comes to life to introduce the next act.

_Ladies and gentleman and everyone in between. You’ve been so patient tonight, and now it’s time for your reward. Prepare to worship that splendorous night star. Prostrate yourselves before Ashtoreth_.

A spot light busts to life and all Aziraphale can see is a silhouette. A slowly rotating inverted crucifix suspended high over the stage, outstretched hands casting shadows on the crowd. A whine and the steady pounding of a drum breaks the hush that has come over the club. The first dirty bass lines flood Aziraphale’s ears and suddenly the stage is awash in light. _Crowley_ is awash in light.

Aziraphale drags his eyes over the scene on the stage. Narrow ankles and muscled calves wrap tightly around a gleaming metal pole. The highest point of his body are a pair of steel spike stilettos pointed skyward. He follows those legs for days, admiring the flexed muscle of his calves and thighs. His hips are draped in a pair of leather hot pants. His gaze jumps to Crowley’s throat, which has been painted entirely in an ebony collar that crawls up into his hairline and onto his chin. The collar fades from his throat onto his chest and over his shoulders in sooty spikes, like an inky corona.  
  
Aziraphale’s stomach jumps as he notices the marks and bruises scattered across his ivory skin. All the places he bit and sucked into existence then soothed with tongue and lips and fingers. That evidence of their intimacy on full display for everyone in the room.  
  
Crowley’s head is wrapped tightly in a coil of black lace and it cuts across his face in a diagonal so all that is exposed is half of that lush mouth, smudged messily with dark crimson lipstick.

_I put a spell on you because you're mine_

_I can't stand the things that you do…_

Crowley is a slowly transforming shape. From that blasphemous inversion of divinity he arches his back deeply, ribcage expanding, and braces his hands on the pole below his head. He is a long slick parenthesis stretched taut, hands and ankles all that are touching the pole.

_No, no, no, I ain't lying_

_I don't care if you don't want me_

_'Cause I'm yours, yours, yours, anyhow_

Aziraphale has heard this song before, but not this version2. The lyrics dripping with tension, almost tinged with aggression. An unrequited declaration of love. Crowley continues to contort around the pole, suspended by his legs and his arms. His feet touch the ground from time to time, but only fleetingly and Aziraphale is struck with the impression that he has wings hidden somehow behind his back. He looks weightless. Effortless.

The song drops to just a persistent drumbeat, lyrics slipping to a murmur. Crowley is horizontal near the top of the pole which is wedged between his torso and one leg thrust parallel to his body, the other stretching long in the opposite direction. One arm is outstretched while the other is wrapped behind his leg to grip the pole from behind in a shape that reminds Aziraphale of that _bird of paradise_ pose he walked in on two days ago. He spins slowly against that sultry purr of the song.

_I love you, I love you…_

The song surges into life again with a screech and whining guitar, and Crowley drops. Aziraphale gasps, hand clasped to his mouth as Crowley plummets toward the stage.

His body jerks to a stop, just inches above the stage, to uproarious applause from the audience. As Crowley's body contorts and spins it is all Aziraphale can do to remain in the booth. To keep from crushing the glass in his hands.

-

The song ends and the stage lights dim. Crowley’s eyes snap to the table where he’d spied Aziraphale only to see a flurry of movement and the back of a curly blond head, rushing away. All of the breath is punched out of him and if he had any awareness at all he would have been grateful for the roar of the crowd covering the broken sob that slips past his lips. He thought he knew how to fall so that he wouldn’t get hurt…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *   
>    
>  [I Put a Spell on You (Marilyn Manson)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4qkrsodwJGY;)  
>    
>  [ ▲ ]  
>    
> 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shh bby is ok

He should have been better prepared. His past was his past but this… This was his present. It was his choice. People can live with what you’ve overcome. They have a harder time accepting what you are. Crowley isn’t sure how he makes it off stage. Or how he ends up with his shoes in one hand and mask in the other. There is a dam inside him threatening to break. He needs a drink. Something stronger than a drink. He wants to leave. Needs to leave. He stomps toward his dressing room. He will throw on trousers and go straight home and he will list his flat and and and…

He freezes.

Those same soft blond curls are the first thing he sees. Then that ample behind draped in sensible wool slacks. Aziraphale is gazing at the mess of creams and makeup strewn across the vanity, his back to the door. His fingers graze across one of Crowley's masks and the gesture is intimate, so familiar, that he can nearly feel it on his own cheek. Crowley opens his mouth to speak but he doesn't know what to say. His chest is still heaving. Lump still thick in his throat. He must make some noise. Some small sound. Because Aziraphale turns his head and his eyes, those beautiful glittering blue pools, catch Crowley's own.

And there is no anger there. No disgust. No disappointment. Aziraphale is beaming. Lighting up the entire room.

“Oh Crowley." He turns the rest of the way to face Crowley and he's cradling a bouquet of red roses so dark they are almost black. "You were stunning.” He takes a step forward. "Absolutely stunning.”

The dam breaks. Everything breaks. Crowley's head is spinning and he folds in the middle. He squats where he stands, head falling between his knees. His shoulders are heaving and in an instant Aziraphale is on his knees, hands fluttering around Crowley's face and shoulders, unsure where to land.

Crowley decides for him, reaching out and grasping his hands and bringing them to his face, turning into one palm and kissing it. Crowley is laughing but his eyes are brimming, threatening to spill over.

Aziraphale’s face cycles through a series of emotion: joy, confusion, worry, before settling somewhere around curiosity. Crowley finds his voice, but it comes out in fits and starts. "I thought. I'm sorry. You were, I thought you were leaving. I'm sorry. Oh God. I'm crazy. Am I crazy? I'm sorry."

Aziraphale silences him with a kiss. Chaste, just a brushing of lips.

"I told you, darling, I'm not going anywhere." He drags Crowley up to his feet and kisses his eyelids. "You can't scare me off that easily. Plus, I mean, wow. Really. You were magnificent out there. "

"Angel..."

"And I... I have a confession to make." He guides Crowley to sit and takes a seat across from him.

"I already knew."

Crowley gapes, "You wot?"

"Dear, I googled you like 10 minutes after we met."

"But..." Crowley’s eyes dart to the masks hanging around the vanity mirror. He never goes on stage without one. Ashtoreth always wears a mask. Aziraphale understands the question.

"Look, it’s no secret that you’re part owner of _Eden_. That is public record. And, well it is only a couple clicks between the club’s website and Ashtoreth's YouTube channel." He fights a smile, drops his gaze, "and... I would have recognized that body anywhere."

Crowley drops his eyes to where they interlace with Aziraphale’s. He smirks "Ten minutes, huh?"

Aziraphale lifts his eyes, peeks up through his eyelashes "would have been sooner but I was, ah, preoccupied..."

Crowley snarls and leans in, Aziraphale meeting him halfway for a sloppy kiss.  
  
A throat clears. "Crowley, dear, did you want to introduce me your friend?"  
  
Crowley doesn't rush, he smiles into the kiss and pulls Aziraphale’s mouth deeper against his for another moment before parting. Aziraphale looks dazed, mouth twitched up into a crooked grin, lips kiss swollen and wet. Crowley tries not to let his mind wander to what would have been had they not been interrupted.  
  
He turns reluctantly away from Aziraphale. "Anathema, this is Aziraphale. Aziraphale, Ms. Anathema Device. Co-owner of Eden and Patron Saint of Bad Fucking Timing."  
  
Anathema cackles and crosses the room to take Aziraphale’s hand, "Aziraphale, so nice to see you again, and to be properly introduced." Crowley's eyes flit between the two of them. Anathema grins. "We met briefly after your set. He was hoping to wait for you here, surprise you."  
  
"Anathema, lovely to meet you. I do apologize, dear. I appreciate you letting me back here," he chuckles, "I was sure I looked terribly suspicious lurking around."  
  
"I had a good feeling about you. You have a good aura." She winks at Crowley, "and awfully good taste." She turns back to Aziraphale, eyes the roses he had discarded on the vanity earlier. "I take it you're enjoying the show?"  
  
Aziraphale beams again, squeezes Crowley’s fingers. "Oh certainly! Everyone has been absolutely lovely. And the space is just beautiful, really. It's been ages since I've been to a burlesque club, and it hasn't disappointed." He glances back at Crowley "Not at all."  
  
“Well I'm so sorry to throw more water on the fire here, but Crowley, babe, you're on again in" she glances at her watch, "five minutes."  
  
Aziraphale, impossibly, perks up even more. "Oh! You're on again?!" And there is that beaming, glowing smile again.  
  
"Yeah, yeah I'm off and on for the next hour or so. You can't headline with one three minute song, unfortunately. Sorry, should have mentioned that..."  
  
"Oh my darling, I'd love nothing more than to watch you for the next hour."

Anathema catches Crowley's eye, gives him a small nod of approval. "Why don't you get ready for your next song and I'll escort Aziraphale here to a primo table, set him up with the VIP treatment."

"Oh, I couldn't impose like that."

"Nonsense" Crowley purrs, "Being with Ashtoreth comes with some benefits."

Aziraphale’s mouth drops, but he doesn't have time to respond before Anathema is scooting him out the door. As they reach a booth tucked towards the side of the stage Anathema hands him a tissue. “You’ve got a little, ah,” she gestures around his mouth. He reaches up and when he pulls his hand away his fingers are smudged in red lipstick. He takes the tissue, thankful for the dim lighting.

Before he can take a seat a waiter is dropping off a cocktail. “Oh, thank you!”

Anathema smiles, but there is glint to her eye. “He’s never done this, you know?”

“Hmm?”

“Crowley. He’s never brought anyone here. Never introduced me to a boyfriend before.”

Aziraphale is at a loss. He isn’t sure how to respond. “Is that so?”

“This is a big deal for him. So if you aren’t interested in a big deal, you need to tell him now. No fucking around.”

Without meaning to Aziraphale goes on the defensive, shoulders squared up, back ramrod straight. He jabs a finger in the general direction of the stage. “I’ll have you know that I’m in love with that man.” He snaps his mouth shut, literally brings a hand to his lips to try to tuck the confession back in. 

Anathema fights a smirk, parrots his words back to him. “Is that so?”

Aziraphale deflates, all the fight gone out of him, “Oh god. Please don’t tell him I said that. I know he wants to take things slow. I don’t… I don’t want to pressure him. Please…”

She drags her fingers across her chest, “Cross my heart.” She tilts her head, “I think I like you Aziraphale.” She smiles, saccharine sweet, “But if you hurt him I _will_ tear you limb from limb and dump you in the river.”

Before Aziraphale can respond she’s turning on her heel and marching away, chastising a bartender and gesturing animatedly toward the sound booth. Aziraphale smiles. _I like her._ The lights dim and the next song begins.

-

Aziraphale is waiting in the dressing room again at the end of the night. He drapes his arms around Crowley’s waist and pulls him in for a kiss as soon as they are alone. One hand drops to the slight curve of Crowley’s ass and squeezes gently. Aziraphale murmurs against his mouth, “You are amazing out there. I don’t think I’ve been this turned on in my life.”

Crowley laughs and runs his fingers over the nape of Aziraphale’s neck. “Let me get changed and we can head home and do something about that.”

Aziraphale tugs him closer, drops his voice, a coy smile tugging at his lips, “Or you could… not get changed.”

“Mmm. Naughty Angel.” He pulls away and tugs on a leather jacket over his bare torso, juts his hip out to the side and leans down to ruffle his hair in the mirror. “You’re getting a cab though. No fucking way am I walking all the way home in these.” Aziraphale nearly drops his phone trying to order a car as he stares down at the six inch stilettos strapped to Crowley’s crossed ankles.

Aziraphale knows the cabbie is staring at them in the rearview but he can’t really blame him. He can hardly tear his eyes off Crowley himself. Once in the cab Crowley stretched out those long gams, and leaned back against the window, leather jacket falling open and exposing his body even more than it already was. His throat was still coated black, lips smudged with rouge, hair sweaty and mussed. Living, walking ( _well… sprawling_ ) temptation. Aziraphale’s fingers creep over the leg thrown over his lap and dip behind his knee, stroking and tickling there before tracing just a few inches up the inside of his thigh. A muscle in Crowley’s jaw clenches and he stretches out further, thighs dropping open a fraction. Aziraphale can feel himself swell in his trousers. He wants to drag Crowley into his lap right there in the backseat of the cab.

At his door Crowley fumbles with his keys, cursing under his breath. Aziraphale slips an arm around his hip, palms at his cock through the leather shorts. “Not helping here, Angel.” Aziraphale giggles behind him and strokes him teasingly. 

The entryway door at the bottom of the stairs creaks open and Aziraphale draws his hand back to rest on Crowley’s hip instead. He hears the key click in the lock and his belly flutters in anticipation.

A wolf whistle cuts through the quiet hallway. “Az, you ol’ dog!”

Aziraphale cringes and turns. Gabriel is climbing the stairs. Face like a mannequin, perpetually plastered with that empty grin and dead eyes.

He leans in and stage whispers, “How much does a girl like her cost?”

Aziraphale seethes, fists clenching at his sides. Before he can open his mouth he feels Crowley wrap around him like a protective snake. In his heels he towers over both of them. His chin rests against Aziraphale’s temple. He can feel Crowley’s lips curl back into a snarl. Crowley’s hands trail around his waist and over a shoulder and he squeezes two generous handfuls of that soft lush belly.

His voice is dripping with venom. “More than you could afford, you fucking tosser.”

Gabriel draws back, nose wrinkled. Crowley leans over Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You’ll keep your opinions to yourself from here on out or so help me god I’ll rip every last one of those pearly whites out of your fucking face. Now get lost.” Gabriel scowls and hurries up the stairs mumbling under his breath and Aziraphale can’t help but laugh out loud as Crowley draws him into his flat by his collar.

They stumble through the darkened space, Aziraphale pushing the leather jacket off Crowley’s shoulders and Crowley working on Aziraphale’s buttons. They hit the island and Aziraphale digs his fingers into Crowley’s waist. “That was… _Fuck_. That was hot.” He runs his hands down his sides and tucks his fingers under the shorts where they grip Crowley’s thighs. “You really look like a god.” He tilts his head up and kisses Crowley’s neck, smudging the dark kohl over his mouth and chin. He whispers against Crowley’s skin. “I want to worship you…”

Crowley brings his hand to Aziraphale’s chin to tilt his head back and looks down his nose at him, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “You know the best way to worship, right?” Aziraphale raises his brows in question. Crowley leans down, tip of his tongue brushing over Aziraphale’s bottom lip. “On your knees.”

The noise that escapes Aziraphale’s lips is somewhere between a growl and a moan. As he drops to his knees he runs his hands down the length of Crowley’s legs. He sinks further and further until he can wrap his fingers around Crowley’s ankles. He lifts each in turn, dipping his head to kiss the top of his feet and then the bony knob at the side of each ankle. He runs his hands up Crowley’s calves, following with his mouth, nipping and smiling against his skin as he moves. When his fingers and tongue finally reach his thighs Crowley is trembling, his hands gripping the countertop so hard he is sure it will crack. Aziraphale grins and takes his time licking and sucking and biting and massaging those thighs that had spent the night working so hard, wrapped tightly around a pole. Aziraphale has a newfound appreciation for them, and he is determined to show it.

When he is certain he has touched every inch of Crowley’s legs he nuzzles the place where Crowley is straining and aching against his shorts. He grazes his teeth over the soft leather and Crowley drops his head back in a silent moan. Aziraphale can feel the heat of him and he can’t wait any longer. He yanks the shorts down Crowley’s legs and lifts a thigh over his shoulder, letting the shorts drop around the other ankle. He presses a palm wide against the top of his knee, urging Crowley to wrap his leg firmly against his back. He can feel the tip of the stiletto pressing against his skin and it sends a shiver up his spine. Aziraphale wastes no time. He takes him into his mouth and Crowley folds over him with a breathy curse, a hand tangling into the downy-soft curls at the back of his head. Aziraphale grips his ass and encourages him to rock in and out of the wet heat of his mouth.

Crowley moves to release his fingers from his hair but Aziraphale catches his wrist and keeps it in place. Crowley squeezes his fist tighter experimentally and Aziraphale groans and takes him deeper. Aziraphale brings his hand to Crowley’s calf, stroking the quivering muscle, feels it flex and strain to support Crowley where he stands. His fingers trail down to find Crowley’s foot and traces out the curve of his arch in the stiletto, considers the fact that Crowley has been strutting around in the sexy monstrosities for the better part of the evening. Kept them on so long because he had asked him to.

He lets Crowley slip from his mouth for a moment and pushes his body upward into Crowley’s thigh where it is still draped over his shoulder. His hands slip under Crowley’s thighs and up to his waist and he heaves him up onto the counter. Aziraphale folds Crowley’s leg at the knee, presses it up against his chest. He slips the heel off reverentially and digs his fingers into the ball of his foot, massaging the tension out.

Crowley drops back onto his elbows and moans. His voice is rough and quivers when he speaks. “Forget what I said. _This_ is the way to worship. Mary had the right idea.”

Aziraphale laughs and slips the other heel off to repeat the action on the other foot. As he rubs at Crowley’s instep he leans forward and takes Crowley into his mouth again.

“ _Fuck!_ Fuck. Nevermind. This… this is it… Oh fucking hell.” Aziraphale snorts around his cock but keeps pressing forward until his throat gives resistance. Crowley’s back arches off the warm gray countertop. Aziraphale bobs his head faster, and interlaces his fingers between Crowley’s toes, spreading them wide. His thumb massaging at the base of his big toe. Crowley’s fingers find his hair again and pull. “Angel, I’m gonna come. I’m gonna…” Aziraphale presses forward even further, fighting his gag reflex as Crowley slides into his throat. Crowley’s body curls forward off the counter, toes clenching around Aziraphale’s fingers. His orgasm surges through him in waves, folding his body further and further as each wracks his body. Aziraphale swallows him down, working his tongue gently as he comes, dragging the sensation out as long as he can. When his body finally unfurls and he collapses back onto the kitchen island Aziraphale pulls back and lets his lips slide off Crowley’s cock. He releases Crowley’s foot and runs his hands over his hips, admiring the pulses and twitches that are still occasionally rippling through Crowley’s body.

As Crowley regains control over his breathing he pushes himself back up to his elbows. Aziraphale leans over him, palms bracketing his hips, and kisses him. He gazes down at the bruises and bite marks on his torso. Recalls how they were illuminated on stage. He traces his hands over them. “I was surprised you didn’t cover these up for the show tonight. Pleased, but surprised.”

Crowley smiles hazily. “I wanted people to know. I wanted to show them off.”

Aziraphale brushes a finger over Crowley’s black eye. “You never told me what happened.”

A quiet laugh. “I _did_. I fell. Fucked up a nose breaker. Ended up with a black eye instead.”

Crowley wraps his arms around Aziraphale who pulls him into to an upright seat on the edge of the counter. Crowley kisses him again and mumbles into his mouth. “Take me to bed.” Aziraphale scoops him up, glad to feel his legs wrap around his waist again. Crowley’s half hard cock twitches against his belly. As Aziraphale walks toward the bedroom Crowley’s mouth finds his neck and jaw and lips. He sits on the edge of the bed with Crowley straddling his lap. He is still clothed and Crowley’s make up leaves dark smudged stains on his shirt as he presses against him and grinds against his neglected cock.

Crowley slithers off his lap, shedding Aziraphale’s clothes to the floor as he moves and then presses him back into the sheets. Aziraphale’s prick is swollen and leaking when Crowley finally slips his lips around it. He swirls his tongue around the tip and pushes down. Aziraphale is too big for him to swallow all the way, so he pumps his hand around the base, pulling off every few minutes to rest his jaw and mumble seemingly randomly. _Fuck_ and _god_ and _beautiful_. Aziraphale’s orgasm takes him by surprise. One moment he can feel it beginning to build and the next it is surging through him, sensation racing through his cock and his belly and his toes and leaving him dizzy.

After, Crowley tucks up against him and lays his head on his chest. Aziraphale strokes his fingers through his hair. They brush over the tattoo at his temple. He can feel the raised scar beneath and he lingers there.

“Why a snake?”

Crowley pauses for a moment. “Snakes shed their skin. They may not transform, but they shed and move on. I felt a lot like that. Afterward. What happened made me, _me_. But I can slough off some of the pain and move on.” Aziraphale squeezes him closer.

They sit quietly for a long time before Aziraphale asks another question. “And the masks?”

Crowley chuckles softly and props himself up on Aziraphale’s chest to face him. “The first time I went on stage, I was so nervous. Anathema gave me a veil. A silly thing to help with nerves. But when she put it on, she said something about wearing a mask to be who I was. And she was right. I was wearing a lot of masks back then. We all do I guess. But I was hiding who I was behind them. But when I was on stage behind a real mask, I could really be me. Really express myself. Without worrying about someone actually knowing me. I could share myself, but not all of myself. If that makes sense. Then it kind of became a thing. Ashtoreth was anonymous. And I liked that.”

Aziraphale hums, reaches out to stroke Crowley’s cheek. “Does anyone else know you’re Ashtoreth?”

“Oh I’m sure some enterprising sleuths have figured it out.” He gives Aziraphale a playful pinch. “But otherwise, no. Just Tracy and Anathema. The crew at _Eden._ ”

“I didn’t mean to scare you tonight, by the way. At the club. I was just so excited. And I wanted to tell you the truth. About knowing. Didn’t want to feel like I was hiding something from you. I should have told you this morning.”

“I’m sorry I… Well. You know. I told you. I’m no good at this.”

“You were _honest_ with me. That is being good at this. Of the very few relationships I’ve been in, they failed because we couldn’t just talk to each other. Couldn’t tell each other the truth. I almost let it happen again last night and you pushed me. In a good way. _That_ is being good at this.”

“Aziraphale?”

“Hm?”

“I’m so happy I met you. I’m so happy I was such an annoying, shitty neighbor.”

Aziraphale laughs, a deep belly laugh that sends Crowley’s arm bouncing where it is draped over him. “Me too, Crowley. Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will finish out with three chapters next week. Preferences for a MWF or TWR post schedule?  
> Also, just a heads up, I'm working on another, longer fic that I'm hoping to start posting in a few weeks, so keep an eye out! This is all very new to me, so if anyone has any advice on finding beta readers, let me know!


	9. Chapter 9

The next few weeks are measured in breaths between falling into bed together. In glasses of wine. In the trinkets and gifts that Crowley collects for Aziraphale like a magpie. In stolen glances while they walk in the park and lingering gazes as they slowly undress one another.

Aziraphale makes shapes on Crowley's chest with a fingertip, admires the slight curve of his body. A body he has come to memorize. He knows the sound Crowley will make if he kisses him here. Bites him there. He knows the telltale quiver of his thighs as he brings him close to the edge. He knows the shapes his body makes as he crashes over it.   
  
He also knows the slant of his brow when he is irritated. And the way his hands fidget when he is trying to avoid something. He knows that sometimes Crowley needs to disappear for an afternoon or a day, and the way he skirts around asking for that space. He knows that sometimes that calm cool confidence is just as much a mask as those that he wears on stage.

He knows both sides of the coin and he loves him all the same. He has tried every day to show him, but he hasn’t been able to get the words out. He traces them across Crowley’s ribcage instead. Crowley has imagined that the forest inside Aziraphale is dominated by a towering redwood of courage, but he is wrong. Aziraphale’s forest, though longer tended, is much a mirror of Crowley’s own. Courage is still a fragile sapling. And every time that he can’t make the words on his tongue a leaf dries up and falls to the forest floor.

_Today._ He tells himself. _Right now._ “Crowley.” His mouth is a bucket of sand. “The last month has been the happiest month of my life.”

Crowley smiles, but there is something else flickering behind his eyes.

“Crowley. I… I lo…” Crowley smashes their mouths together. It is not warm and passionate. It is ice water. Their mouths stay together, but neither moves to deepen the kiss. To pretend it is something other than what it is.

Crowley is the first to move, letting his lips fall away while his forehead falls forward to press against Aziraphale’s. His eyes are screwed shut. He whispers. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m not ready. Please. I’m sorry.”

Aziraphale tugs him close and rocks him like a child. “It’s okay. I can wait. I’ll be patient.” And he tries, but every day another leaf shrivels and falls.

-

Crowley thought that he had caged fear and made her small, but she had simply transformed. She was still living and breathing, but as an ember instead of a monster. A slowly smoldering ember, waiting for a breeze to catch and set fire to his tinderbox heart. And when it did, it would set his forest ablaze. Raze all that he had nurtured and grown. The newest seedling in his forest is named love and though she has been growing at an astonishing rate for the past month, he longs to protect her. He worries that saying her name will breathe life into fear and he will burn to pieces. 

-

It happens just a week later. He didn’t mean to. Truly. He promised to be patient, but that didn’t stop him from loving. It didn’t stop that wonderful, beautiful, awful, terrifying ache that consumes him. He was folded up in Crowley’s arms and legs, rocking slowly into him. Some days their lovemaking was frantic, desperate, rough. Today was like moving through molasses. Minds and limbs moving in slow motion. The late spring breeze had given way to the first bout of summer heat and sweat prickled on their skin, beading up and running into the folds and divots of their bodies. Aziraphale had been riding the edge of his orgasm for the better part of ten minutes. Pushing them both tantalizingly close before pulling away over and over again. He reveled in Crowley’s stuttering moans, the way he threw his head back, the huffs of breath pushed out of him with each slow thrust. Aziraphale sucked a lazy bruise onto a collarbone as his orgasm coiled inside him again. Crowley’s body shuddered beneath him and the world blinked out around them. Their entire existence imploding and condensing into this moment. Two bodies molding into one. And he didn’t realize he was saying it until the words were past his lips. Three little words that were, at once, everything and nothing. Once they were out, he couldn’t hold back. He whispered them again and again against Crowley’s skin and Crowley tensed and spilled between them, sobbing Aziraphale’s name, hands clutching desperately at his body as Aziraphale followed with a gasp.

They remain in silence for a long time, still wrapped tightly around one another. Aziraphale fears if he speaks or moves that Crowley will be angry. That he will leave. That the spell will be broken. He sucks in a breath and whispers against Crowley’s chest, and again, once the words come he can’t stop them. “Crowley, I’m sorry. You don’t have to say it back. I’ll be patient as long as you need, but I can’t not love you. I’m sorry, please don’t be angry. But it is true. It’s been true.”

Crowley says nothing. He holds Aziraphale tighter. Aziraphale can hear his heart racing in his chest. “Crowley… please.”

His voice wavers, “No, it’s ok. You’re right. I shouldn’t have asked you not to. I just… I’m just... I’ve never been loved before.” He takes a shuddering breath. “I just don’t want to fuck it up.” He squeezes even tighter, “I don’t want to lose you.”

Aziraphale sits up, drags Crowley up with him. He wipes tears from his cheeks. “Crowley you _are_ loved. You have Tracy and Anathema and… well, I’ve loved you since the beginning.”

Crowley nods and chokes back a sob, his head dropping to Aziraphale’s chest. And there _is_ a spark that bursts to life inside him, but it isn’t fear, and it doesn’t burn that little forest that he has been tending to. Instead it races through the underbrush and leaves in its wake fertile ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one, so the next chapter will go up tomorrow!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue tomorrow!

Anathema ushers Aziraphale to a table situated at the head of the stage instead of his usual spot near the wings.

He eyes her suspiciously and takes a seat. The day has been strange. Crowley rushed out first thing for “business meetings” despite having never attended a meeting as long as Aziraphale had known him, let alone more than one. When Aziraphale made it out of bed he found a steaming mug of tea and a short note: _See you at Eden, don’t be late. xo –C_

He received a text at noon. _wear that shirt i like. and roll up the sleeves_ _;) 10:00, don’t forget_

And another an hour before Crowley’s set was to begin. _on your way?_

“Anathema, dear, do you care to fill me in here?”

She slides a glass of red wine across the table to him. “Fill you in on what?”

He purses his lips, squints at her. “This is all very suspicious.”

“I haven’t the foggiest what you’re on about.” She winks and glides away toward the bar.

He glances at his watch. Crowley should be on any minute. The club is absolutely packed and they’ve stuck him in this huge booth front and center. He can feel the group beside him shooting daggers as they smash everyone around the much smaller table to his left. He glances at the _VIP_ placard on the table and blushes. He preferred his VIP treatment on the sidelines ( _and in the bedroom afterwards_ ). He sips his wine and tries to avoid eye contact with the other patrons. He fidgets with a loose thread on his shirt.

At last the lights dim and a hush falls over the room. The sound of stilettos click slow and steady across the stage, echoing through the room. Aziraphale shivers. He has been to every one of Crowley’s shows since that first week and he never tires of seeing him on stage. He shines. He dominates the space and is unapologetically cocky. He demands full attention from the room and always receives it. Aziraphale finds it all unbearably sexy and it is all he can do to wait until they are behind the closed door of one of their flats before he is jumping Crowley. Although on one especially memorable occasion they didn’t make it out of the dressing room. He smiles at the memory.

That familiar velvet purr fills the room. _Ladies and Gentleman and Neither, we have a very special surprise for you tonight. Your beloved Ashtoreth would like to dedicate this performance to the Angel in the room. Aziraphale, this one is for you._

A dim spotlight falls on Aziraphale and he gasps. _Oh god oh god oh god_. He shrinks in the booth and glances around in embarrassment. There is movement on the darkened stage and Aziraphale prays that the attention will shift away from him soon. The lights come up slowly and Aziraphale trains his eyes on the stage, tries to ignore the eyes on him. Crowley has one knee and one hand wrapped around the pole. He is hanging nearly upside down, facing away from the audience. His back is arched deeply. His head and fingertips reaching toward the floor below.

 _I’m cryin’ cuz I love you_ 3.

The club is filled with blaring big band brass and Aziraphale gasps in time with the rest of the crowd as Crowley rotates so he is arching toward the audience. He isn’t wearing a mask. His face is open and vulnerable. He is wearing skin tone briefs and nothing else, giving the illusion of complete nudity. Even his stilettos are discarded on the stage. His hair is mussed like he’s been running his hands through it ( _he most certainly has. All. Damn. Day._ ).

_Never been in love before_

_What the fuck are fucking feelings yo?_

Aziraphale’s head is a storm. He can’t settle on any one thought. Crowley laying himself bare. Crowley sharing this with the world. Crowley unmasked. Crowley performing to mother fucking _Lizzo_ because he knows that Aziraphale likes her. His heart thuds. His lip quivers. He’s forgotten completely about the spotlight still illuminating him. There’s just him and Crowley, two bright spots in the darkness.

_Tryna open up a little more_

_Sorry if my heart a little slow_

He can hardly focus on the moves and the shapes Crowley is making on stage because he is staring so intently at Crowley’s face. His head is swimming and his vision is getting blurry and goosebumps are racing up his arms and legs.

_I thought that I didn't care_

_I thought I was love-impaired_

The crowd roars and whoops as Crowley sinks down the pole all the way to the floor, back arching up off the stage until he is balanced on hips and crown and toes. He draws himself up and begins to _crawl_ the length of the stage, pausing every few beats for a flourish or to pound the stage in time with the lyrics and Aziraphale is stuck halfway between crying and coming at the sight. Crowley’s eyes are locked on Aziraphale. The two spotlights slowly mold into one as Crowley closes the distance between them.

As the brass and drums and electric guitar swell to a fever pitch Crowley is sliding off the stage and climbing onto Aziraphale’s table, still on hands and knees and Aziraphale leans closer, fingers inching over the tabletop toward him. Time slows down. Aziraphale watches a bead of sweat trail down his temple. Crowley’s eyes are wild, his pupils so wide Aziraphale can hardly see the honey brown rings around them. His tongue darts out and wets his lips and Aziraphale is sure he can see his pulse pounding in his throat.

_I'm crying 'cause I love you_

Crowley reaches out and threads his fingers into the hair at the nape of Aziraphale’s neck, pulling him up and kissing him, there, under the spotlight, in front of the entire club. The room is a madhouse, even the formerly grumpy table beside him are cheering and clapping. The spotlight on Aziraphale begins to dim as Crowley slips off the table and into his lap, straddling him in the booth. Instinctively Aziraphale wraps his arms around his waist and pulls him close. Their chests flush, heartbeats racing together in synch. He brings his lips to Aziraphale’s ear and despite the raucous crowd he can hear him clear as day. “Aziraphale Fell, I love you. I love you. I’ve always loved you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *   
>    
>  [Cuz I Love you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PCKtQkbve8k)   
>    
>  [ ▲ ]   
>    
> 


	11. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to write fluff and smut came out? Whoops.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has read and a special shout out to everyone that left such positive comments! It has been a real treat reading them every week. I've really loved writing these versions of Crowley and Aziraphale so I'm planning a series of Love Thy Neighbor "deleted scenes" so I can keep writing them! That " _one especially memorable occasion they didn’t make it out of the dressing room_ " is ready to go, so keep an eye out for that next week! I'd love to hear your requests though if you have any!
> 
> UPDATE: 1/19 [**Love They Neighbor Deleted Scenes**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28857723)
> 
> I'm (very recently) on twitter now. Is that still a thing people do? Come do whatever the hell it is people do on twitter. But with me. @snae_b
> 
> Finally, I have another AU in the works. It is a little bit of a beast, but I'm hoping to start posting in a few weeks. It is a little more gritty than this one, but just as full of fluff and smut.

Aziraphale stares at Crowley wide eyed. “I am _not_ wearing that.”

Crowley pouts. “C’mon, you were the one that wanted a couple’s costume!”

“I was thinking something more along the lines of.. I don’t know. A koala and a eucalyptus tree or something. Not… _that_.”

“Angel, you would look so hot in this. Plus with your hair, you’re perfect for it. _Please_.” Aziraphale reaches out and plucks the tiny swath of gold fabric from Crowley’s fingers, turns it over in his hands. 

“I don’t think I can even _fit_ in this.”

Crowley shoots him a devilish smirk. “Why don’t you try it on? Find out?”

Aziraphale purses his lips and gives Crowley a side eye, “Crowley, look, you are going to make a marvelous Frank-N-Furter, but don’t you think I’m more of a Brad?”

Crowley waggles his brows. “Even Brad ends up in a corset and fishnets, love.”

Aziraphale sighs. “Better than this.” he flings the gold speedo onto the bed. “And at least Brad actually bangs Frankie.”

Crowley throws his head back and laughs. “Is it a deal then? Brad _a la_ Rose Tint My World?”

Aziraphale sighs even louder, “Fine. But you owe me one. A big one.”

Crowley sidles up to him, grabs at his own crotch. “I’ve got a big one for you right here.”

Aziraphale scrunches his face. “You are the worst. The absolute worst.” Crowley laughs again. “Now get out of here. I have to get this draft to my recipe testers _today_.”

-

Over the past five months Aziraphale had slowly but surely moved himself into Crowley’s flat. He hadn’t realized it was happening. First it was just to use those sparkling new appliances. To get some stunning shots of a dusting of flour on those beautiful countertops. He brought down some bundt pans here, a sunny little tea kettle there. After a couple of months he had more clothes in Crowley’s closet than his own and couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken up in his own bed. After three months Aziraphale woke up to find a small red velvet box on his nightstand and had nearly embarrassed himself entirely by shouting _Yes, yes, god yes!_ Before he’d even opened the damn thing. He was _almost_ as giddy to find a key to Crowley’s flat inside.

“I love it when you’re here.” Crowley had said, “I don’t know why I didn’t just give you this like two months ago.” He had looked away then, nervous. “I wouldn’t mind if you were here… permanently. When you want to be, that is. When you’re ready.”

Aziraphale was ready. This had always been a whirlwind. No need to slow down now. He told Crowley as much and they made love and then immediately moved Aziraphale’s beloved leather armchair downstairs and then, as soon as humanly possible, had christened it too.

After some consideration and several conversations they decided to keep Aziraphale’s flat and use it for housing for what was now Crowley and Tracy’s budding non-profit aimed at helping sex workers in unsafe conditions. A little legal maneuvering and a title transfer and it would belong to an LLC. It felt right somehow, that in the space that Crowley and Aziraphale had first fallen in love, they provided a safe haven for people most in need of it. A place away from pimps and police and living on the street. A place where they could be nurtured and find their feet. Grow their own forests.

Crowley and Aziraphale built a sturdy little desk together and set it up in next to Crowley’s jungle and those killer floor to ceiling windows and, like he had been yearning to do, Aziraphale cut back his posting schedule and started working on his cookbook. As he wrote he imagined walking the centuries hand in hand with Crowley, indulging in good food and good conversation. It was the hidden narrative behind his little book which was as much a history of food as it was a cookbook.

Aziraphale is working on a nod to Trimalchio’s dinner for a section on ancient Roman cuisine. He had been dying to recreate Trimalchio’s seventh course: Priapus surrounded by cakes that squirted saffron juice suggestively4. His editor pointed out that may not be so well received by the American mum crowd, so he settled on the ninth course instead: speckled pastry thrushes flavored with quince and stuffed with nuts and sweets. Crowley walks through the door as Aziraphale is removing his latest test batch from the oven. He sets a small black bag on the island and squints at the tray. “I think your thrushes exploded.”

Aziraphale heaves a sigh. “Yes, it appears they have. I think too much filling.” He frowns at the poor burst pastry birds. “Maybe I’ll make them bigger? Trimalchio was all about excess and flash, after all.”

“Speaking of,” Crowley nudges the bag toward him. “Picked up your costume today.”

Aziraphale eyes the bag. It is… small. “That was fast.”

“I pole dance for a living, Angel. I’ve got a guy.”

Aziraphale chuckles.

“I’m going to do some yoga. Let me know when you get a chance to try it on though. And good luck with the thrushes. I still think you should have done the giant prick instead. Fuck American mums.”

Aziraphale scoots the sad sagging pastry birds onto a cooling rack. They may be ugly but the boys staying in his old flat will gobble them down no problem.

-

Aziraphale peeks into Crowley’s studio space at the far end of the flat. It is a dimly lit room mirrored entirely on one wall and with a professional quality pole installed dead center. Crowley is on his belly, palms pressed into a thin grey mat. He lifts up into a cobra pose, shoulder blades squeezing together and back muscles flexing. A breath later he releases to the ground and pushes up, through a plank and into downward facing dog. Aziraphale licks his lips at the sight. Crowley gazes at Aziraphale between his legs and his eyes go wide. He drops his knees and whips around to face Aziraphale properly.

Aziraphale fidgets in the doorway, “Crowley, I really don’t know about this. It feels… obscene.”

Crowley crawls toward the door, jaw dropped in awe. He reaches out, still on his knees, and runs his fingers under the tight elastic that digs into the fat of Aziraphale’s thigh. Rubs them down the back of his leg and feels the soft hair prickle his hand where it pokes through the fishnet.

“How the _fuck_ have I never put you in lingerie before?” He can barely tear his gaze from the tiny black pants that are struggling to contain Aziraphale.

“Crowley, I can’t go out in public like this.”

Crowley snaps the braces on the garter belt and growls. “Oh yes you can.” He reaches up and strokes Aziraphale through the fabric, runs his hand up over the loosely laced corset wrapped around his belly. Aziraphale giggles at the soft touch, runs his fingers through Crowley’s hair. Crowley groans quietly. “I can’t wait to show you off. God you’re going to look so good on my arm.”

“I can’t walk in those heels you lent me. Not a chance.”

Crowley is hardly listening. “S’fine. We’ll get you something else.” He leans forward and licks Aziraphale’s thigh, lets his tongue feel all of the little diamonds hugging tight against his skin.

“Darling…”

“We’ll talk about it later.” He pulls the pants down only enough to slip Aziraphale free and takes him, still soft, into his mouth. Aziraphale makes a sound of protest but doesn’t stop him. Crowley runs his hands up and down under the garter belt, returning them over and over again to finger at the place his stockings dig into his flesh. Aziraphale leans against the doorframe and Crowley moans as he grows and slowly fills his mouth.

Crowley trails his fingers up over the corset again then higher and higher over his chest and throat until he finds Aziraphale’s mouth, then pushes in with two fingers. Aziraphale sucks greedily around them, leaves them sopping with saliva, trails of it running down Crowley’s hand and wrist.

Crowley shifts where he sits on his knees and hikes one fishnet clad leg over his shoulder. He pulls the pants to the side and rubs at Aziraphale’s perineum before sliding his middle finger back and inside. He can feel the tendons at the back of Aziraphale’s knee spasm against his shoulder and hears his head fall back against the doorframe. He massages his tongue under the head of Aziraphale’s cock and his finger at his prostate.

Aziraphale is making all manner of soft blissed out noises above him and Crowley wants more. He pulls his mouth off of Aziraphale, slips his finger out and returns with a second. “Tell me how you feel.” He pushes his fingers deep, until his knuckles are flush with Aziraphale’s skin, then nudges them deeper, making Aziraphale gasp.

“Good.” Aziraphale is panting now. “So good. You’re so good.”

“Keep telling me.” He returns his mouth to Aziraphale’s cock, keeps thrusting his fingers into him.

Aziraphale looks down, run his fingers over the stretch of Crowley’s lips. “ _God_. So fucking hot.” A high pitched moan tumbles out of Aziraphale’s lips as Crowley quirks his fingers. “I cant. Can’t describe what you d-do to me.” The leg tossed over Crowley’s shoulder starts to tremble. He speaks in broken huffs through gritted teeth. “I want to come - all over - that pretty face.”

Crowley pops his mouth off of Aziraphale, stills his hand where it is thrusting in and out of him. “Jesus Christ, Aziraphale.” He gazes up to see a hint of worry on Aziraphale’s face that dissipates as soon as he sees the look on Crowley’s own. The fingers of Crowley’s free hand reach up and circle Aziraphale’s wrist, bringing his fingers to grasp tightly around his own cock. “Do it. Fucking do it.” Crowley starts pumping his fingers in and out again then lets his jaw fall open, tilts his face up and closes his eyes.

Aziraphale whines at the sight and pumps his fist over his cock until he’s spilling over Crowley’s face, leaving hot white streaks over his cheeks and lips. As the spurts get weaker Crowley blinks open his eyes, lashes sticky with cum, and takes Aziraphale back into his mouth to suck the last drops from his weeping slit.

Aziraphale slides down the doorframe, leg slipping off of Crowley’s shoulder, until they are face to face. Crowley flashes him a satisfied grin and uses his thumb to smear cum off his cheek and into his mouth. Aziraphale can only pant and stare. “I changed my mind. You’re right. You can’t wear this in public. Won’t be able to keep my hands off you.”

-

The night of the Halloween party Aziraphale is still not sure what their costumes are going to be. Crosses his fingers they don’t show too much skin. He has spent all day baking up dozens of cupcakes topped with meringue brains and piped to the brim with raspberry crème pâtissière. He is loading up the last of them into boxes to take to _Eden_ when Crowley bursts through the door of their flat with a garment bag and a shit eating grin.

“Last minute but I figured it out!” Aziraphale startles. He drops a cupcake and scowls. “Oh Angel, you’re going to love it. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it until so late.” He flings the garment bag over the back of the couch and rocks on his heels, waiting for Aziraphale to join him.

Aziraphale cleans up the cupcake and joins Crowley who opens the garment bag with a flourish and looks smugly at Aziraphale.

“Oh darling, they’re beautiful!” He reaches out and brushes his fingers through the pearlescent feathers. Crowley drapes an arm across Aziraphale’s shoulders. Aziraphale bounces and clasps his hands together. “Oh Crowley I love it! It’s perfect. But what is your costume?”

Crowley winks.

-

An angel and a demon walk into a bar. Anathema squeals and bounds across the club. “You guys look amazing!” She grabs half of Aziraphale’s stack of boxes and carries them to the bar to start unloading. The booths have been moved to the outer edges of the club to make room for guests to mingle and dance. They are forgoing a traditional show to throw a costume party instead.

“Doors open at nine. I had Newt remove the pole for the night so people can use the stage too without us having to worry about some idiot getting hurt on it.” Aziraphale frowns a little. He knows Crowley isn’t on tonight, but he was hoping to goad him into a song or two. Or maybe take a spin himself. Crowley has been showing him some of the basics at home, and while he’ll never be performing at _Eden_ , he has fun.

Crowley grins. “How is ol’ Newt doing these days?”

Anathema narrows her eyes at him, “Fine.”

“Heard you guys in your office the other day. Conversation sure sounded… stimulating.” Aziraphale swats at his arm.

She smirks. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Crowley laughs. “Uh huh…”

She tilts her chin up. “Don’t you have other things to worry about?”

He clenches his jaw. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Aziraphale rolls his eyes at them. He is pretty convinced they are long lost siblings the way they bicker.

As the party ramps up Crowley disappears. Aziraphale hardly notices at first. He’s found a quiet booth to sit and chat with Tracy. He and Tracy had become fast friends after Crowley introduced them. He could sit with her for hours, and had on several occasions. Tracy herself, until her recent betrothal, had been a working girl. A way to supplement her income that she found empowering. She liked to call herself an independent contractor. She had so many fascinating stories that Aziraphale was constantly badgering her into letting him write them down. Ghostwrite a memoir. She was regaling him with a story about the time she lost the keys to a set of handcuffs and had to use a hacksaw to free a client from her headboard when Aziraphale glanced at his watch. He hadn’t seen Crowley in forty minutes, at least, and was starting to get worried.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt my dear, but I’m starting to wonder where Crowley’s off to.”

She takes his hand. “Oh I’m sure he’s fine. He’s a big boy. Can take care of himself.”

Aziraphale laughs. “I’m more worried about who is on the receiving end of his attention, if I’m being honest.”

Just then Crowley sweeps up to the table, looking slick in his dark suit and black wings. Aziraphale looks up with a smile. "Speak of the devil."

He eyes Tracy nervously. “Mind if I steal the Angel for a dance?”

Tracy lights up, “Oh not at all! By all means.” He offers his hand and Aziraphale takes it gladly. Repositioning his wings as he slides out of the booth. Once on his feet he runs his hands over his cream suit, admiring the tailoring. Crowley had really gone all out on their costumes.

Crowley leads him up onto the stage and pulls him close. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you on this stage with so many clothes on.” Crowley laughs and they sway together. There is a bubble of space surrounding them and Aziraphale assumes it must be because of the massive wings they are wearing.

Crowley brushes a kiss against Aziraphale’s temple. “I love you, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale smiles fondly. “I love you too, Crowley.”

As the song fades the lights on the stage come up just a few lumens. Crowley steps back and kneels. Aziraphale’s heart races, his hand comes up to his chest. “Shoe’s untied there, Angel!”

Aziraphale’s shoulders slump and he runs his hands through his hair laughing. He mumbles toward the ceiling, “Oh god…” Crowley ties his shoelace and stands up with a shy grin.

They dance and chat with friends for another hour before Crowley tugs at Aziraphale’s hand and whispers against the nape of his neck. “Why don’t we get out of here? Go back home so I can peel you out of that suit.”

“Are you sure? It’s still early. It’s your party, after all.”

Crowley glances around the club and takes a deep breath, “Yeah, yeah I’m sure.” They walk hand in hand, wings outstretched, and enjoy the unseasonably warm weather. They talk about the club and Anathema and Newt and Tracy’s handcuff story. As they get close to their flat Crowley gets quiet, takes the time to sneak glances at Aziraphale. Aziraphale notices, of course, and smiles bashfully.

When they reach the door to their flat Crowley pulls his hand away and Aziraphale notices for the first time how clammy it is. The keys jingle quietly in Crowley’s hand as he unlocks the door.

“Crowley darling, is everything alright?”

Crowley pushes the door open, steps aside for Aziraphale to enter, “Perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

Aziraphale steps through, sideways so his wings fit. “Are you sure, dear, your hands…” his words trail off as he walks into the flat. The door clicks softly behind him. His hands come to his mouth. The entire space is filled to overflowing with lush greenery. Flowers and ferns and vines and herbs and fruit trees. Fairy lights are draped everywhere, illuminating the space with a twinkling glow. He wanders into the flat, reaching out to touch the fringe of a towering palm and then the smooth skin of a ripe lemon. His fingers graze over the lights and to the prickly edges of an aloe plant. “Oh _Crowley_.”

He turns to find Crowley, once again, down on one knee. This time though, he is clutching a small black box. “What…”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley’s voice trembles. Aziraphale’s heart races. “I know I’m the one that keeps going slow. That has been scared.” The box trembles in his hand. “But I’m not scared anymore.” Aziraphale is shaking, but he’s already nodding his head. “And I know that this is fast. _So_ fast. But I’ve never been so certain about anything in my life.” Aziraphale drops to his knees in front of Crowley, still nodding, as Crowley opens the box. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes.Yesyesyesyes. I will marry you!” He throws his arms around Crowley and plasters his face with kisses. He pulls back, one hand on either side of Crowley’s face. “Anthony Crowley, I would love nothing more than to marry you.”

Crowley nods toward the box in his hand. “You wanna… try it on?” Aziraphale nods and holds out a hand. Crowley laughs, pulls the simple gold band from the box and slips it onto his finger. Aziraphale holds his hand up under the twinkling lights and admires it.

“We’re getting married.”

Crowley smiles. “We’re getting married.” He leans in and pulls Aziraphale forward for a kiss.

-

Aziraphale pulls a blanket up around them both and gazes around at their own little garden of Eden. Their naked bodies wrap tightly around each other. “You knew I’d never wear that Rocky Horror costume, didn’t you.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t propose to you in _that_.” He grins at Aziraphale. “Didn’t mean I couldn’t fuck you in it though.”

Aziraphale laughs. “Insufferable. Vile man.”

“Plus, I mean, c’mon. You think I could get those wings and those suits in like… two days? Those bad boys have been in the works for the last two months. And that was a rush job.”

He pokes Crowley in the ribs. “Sneaky! Also, very romantic.” He presses a kiss to Crowley’s cheek. “And who else was in on all… this?” He gestures to the room.

“Oh the usual suspects. Anathema. Newt. Tracy. Stashed everything upstairs until I could sneak out from the party. Had Tracy distract you while Anathema and Newt and Eric, the new kid upstairs, helped me drag everything down here and set it all up.”

“And that business after our dance?”

Crowley giggles. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Fiend!” Aziraphale jabs his ribs again.

When Crowley’s giggles subside he grabs Aziraphale’s hand and draws it up to spin the band on his finger. “I love you.”

Aziraphale kisses him. “I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * When my glance returned to the table, I noticed that a dish containing cakes had been placed upon it, and in the middle an image of Priapus, made by the baker, and he held apples of all varieties and bunches of grapes against his breast, in the conventional manner. We applied ourselves wholeheartedly to this dessert and our joviality was suddenly revived by a fresh diversion, for, at the slightest pressure, all the cakes and fruits would squirt a saffron sauce upon us, and even spurted unpleasantly into our faces.  [ ▲ ]


	12. TEASER: Protect and Serve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here is a little teaser for my new fic _Protect and Serve_
> 
> Interested in more? You can find the rest of the chapter here: [**Protect and Serve**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29030784)

“10-80. Suspect is moving west on Elm on foot. Officer in pursuit.” He hits the brakes as the front tire hops onto the curb and slams the car into park. Aziraphale leaps out of his cruiser and races down the street, boots slapping the sidewalk noisily. It is mid-summer and it is peak tourist season. The sidewalks are packed with slow moving groups ogling the city and snapping photos of _Lou Malnati’s_. Aziraphale rages internally. _It’s just fucking pizza, get out of the way!_ He’s keeping pace with the suspect until a smiling young couple steps directly into his path to take a selfie. He nearly topples over them, knocking the phone out of the stunned woman’s hand in the process. “Police! Out of the way!” He loses sight of the suspect behind a city bus as the distance between them increases and Aziraphale curses under his breath. He slows, scans the street. There. He spots the man again. A blur of copper ducking into a parking structure down the street.

A burst of static. A muffled voice. “10-17. Backup en route. Officer Fell, what’s your twenty?” Aziraphale scowls, ignores the scratchy chatter coming from his radio and picks up speed again. He rounds the entrance to the looming grey structure and as he moves out of the blistering afternoon sun to the quiet shadowy concrete depths he is hit with a wall of cool air. He stops. Listens. It is never really quiet in the city. Not entirely. He can hear the bustling street outside, vacationers and buskers and retail workers sucking down cigarettes in the alley before they have to hurry back to the till. An ambulance wails in the distance and a helicopter hovers several blocks away. Music drifts in from a restaurant down the street, windows thrown open to let in the summer air. The radio on his hip bursts to life again. “Officer Fell, please report, what’s your twenty?” Aziraphale turns the little black knob on the top of his radio and the scratchy voice fades.

He creeps further into the structure, eyes adjusting to the dim space. The garage itself is quiet except for an echo of feet hitting the pavement above him. He weighs his options: take the wide spiraling lanes of the garage up in pursuit or use the stairwell and try to cut him off. The stairs will get him higher faster, but if the suspect changes direction he may lose him for good. He eyes the heavy metal door and dimly lit stairwell behind it. He makes a split second decision, takes a chance. He bounds up the stairs three at a time, palm hovering over his holster for a breath before he thinks better of it. The structure is shorter than he is anticipating and he bursts out of the stairwell and back into the blinding sunlight just in time to hear an engine roar to life.

Opposite him, at the other end of the parking garage, a sleek dark BMW, windows tinted black, lays rubber on the asphalt and fishtails around the bend back down into the garage. Aziraphale curses then turns on his heel and races back into the dank stairwell, throwing himself down the stairs at breakneck speed. He can hear the car’s tires squealing as it tears around the curves of the parking structure. At the bottom of the stairs he flings the door wide, stumbles back outside and skids to a stop. The BMW is sitting at the exit just 20 feet away, the driver casually feeding a crisp white ticket into the slot at the booth. As the long arm of the barricade springs to life and lifts into the air the redhead behind the wheel turns to where Aziraphale is standing, tilts his sunglasses down and looks Aziraphale up and down with a smirk. He winks before peeling out and disappearing around the corner into traffic.

Aziraphale stares, mouth open as the barricade slowly sinks back down at the exit. _That smug fucking bastard._ The radio crackles quietly on his belt and he cringes. His lungs are screaming at him. His heart thumping wildly in his chest. He drops his hands to his knees and tries to catch his breath. “Fuck.” He hears sirens approaching. “ _Fuck_.”


End file.
